A Changing Land (32 page)

William Crawford found his father at the dining table, a lone figure at the end of the gleaming hardwood that could comfortably seat twenty. He sat rather stiffly amid a selection of tureens arranged within ease of reach, although the food on his plate remained untouched and the crystal brandy decanter showed he had displayed a healthy interest. Billy, his page, although the eight-year-old was indeed of Aboriginal stock, waited patiently behind him dressed in the manor of an English estate domestic: breeches, waistcoat and jacket with the obligatory white stockings. The boy only needed a hand-held rattan fan to transport William back to the tropics.

‘Ah, my boy. You're back. Good, good. Just in time for the evening meal although you missed a fine apple strudel at dinner today. Yes, a fine strudel.'

William took his place on his father's left, poured a generous glass of French brandy and took a more than gentlemanly sip. Mr Hamish Gordon's visiting card in the form of a garish purple
and yellow bruise still graced his father's left eye and cheek, and had clearly affected the grinding mechanisms of his jaw for it was a number of days since Gordon's impudent visit and his father appeared to have lost some weight.

‘This weather, really, Father, I don't know how you stand it,' William announced, taking another sip of brandy and wincing at the warmth. He had friends in both Sydney and Melbourne who benefited from those new fangled ice chests and cellars that enjoyed the bedrock virtues of a cool environment. Here he was sitting among candle-flaming candelabras, the heavy gold damask curtains obliterating any hint of air.

‘The soup is excellent, cabbage, Mrs Dean informs me, with a hint of preserved orange.'

Billy ladled soup, offered William a finely rolled bun.

Oscar waited for his son to begin an oratory of the property. Having spent a number of days in the saddle, each trip longer than the one before, detail was expected. The exercise assisted with the return of his son's usual placid character, a marked feature of the youth that had been missing since Hamish Gordon's uninvited visit.

‘The soup is rather good,' William admitted, finishing off the bowl and taking another sip of brandy. ‘Are you still intent on pursuing your scheme?' he asked as Billy served a large slice of potato and mutton pie.

‘Ah, so you have been ruminating on our discussions. Yes, my boy. You forget we were here before that Scottish brigand weaselled his way onto Wangallon. I know his type: ruthless and unforgiving; a seeker of revenge in the truest sense.'

William stretched his torso, readying his appetite for the next course. The house boy was lighting candles about the room and opening curtains with the disappearing sun. William stuck his fork into the pie. He couldn't doubt the flaky texture of the pastry, however the mutton was a little tough and the salt, well, it would
drive a man to drink water until he was fit to burst. ‘Exactly my point. We're not quite of that stock, Father, and …'

Oscar burped loudly and waved his linen napkin for silence. There really was no excuse for this type of rendering of one's opinion, not after the master of the household, and he might add the veritable brains behind their fortune, was decided on a course of action. ‘William, I have discussed the situation in detail with Peters and Tremayne. Tremayne you will recall is a tracker of some repute.'

‘Sounds rather African native to me.' William waited for Billy to clear his partially eaten meal before custard was served. ‘You're sure he will come?'

‘You may depend on it. Wetherly assures me of his plan. We don't have all the details, of course, however we know he intends to strike during the full moon. And tonight the moon will be at its brightest.'

William licked pastry from his upper lip. ‘Wetherly can be trusted?'

Oscar gulped down more brandy. ‘The man is indebted to me. His liaison with Mrs Constable rendered him unemployable until I offered him the position of stud master. I believe his loyalty was proved upon informing me of Gordon's counteroffer. I must say I find the machinations of life quite enthralling. Imagine Gordon having the audacity to offer Wetherly a position. Wetherly knows what side his bread is buttered on.'

William turned up his nose at the bowl of pale custard. ‘A common term, Father.'

‘For common people,' Oscar reminded his son. ‘Hamish Gordon is not a man for paltry paperwork. He will come over the river with retribution in mind and we will be waiting, with a magistrate on hand, to witness his criminal intent.'

William doubted the plan would go quite so smoothly. Hamish Gordon, ignorant Scot he may be, was not stupid. In fact it seemed
ludicrous to believe that Gordon would actually try to thieve their stock.

Oscar waved his stained linen napkin. ‘I know, my lad, what you are thinking; however, we have but forty or so stray cows belonging to that brigand and they have been moved well away from suspicious eyes.'

This snippet of information sat poorly with William. Still, if his father was correct and Hamish Gordon could be made an example of, they could perhaps purchase Wangallon. The heir, after all, was under ten years of age and the eldest was beyond the mantle of managing Wangallon. He was a drover of some repute but with little business acumen. ‘Very well. Certainly our plantations abroad have done very well this year, Father. The coffee trade is booming. We have, I believe, the necessary funds to purchase Wangallon.'

Oscar sucked at the spoonful of custard before waving a ruffled shirt sleeve for more brandy. Once his glass was filled and the child domestic had been sent from the room to refill the decanter, he tapped the arms of the hardwood chair. ‘My boy, I'm not thinking of buying Wangallon.'

William found his spoon suspended midway to his mouth. ‘What, but I thought that was what we had decided on.'

Oscar dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his linen napkin. Slowly his pale features slid into a smile. ‘I said that I wanted Wangallon. I didn't say I wanted to pay for it.'

‘But how then?' William stammered. He was a man of the law and should his father insist on some form of underhand deal, it would make them of no better elk than Hamish Gordon.

‘Do you not see, William? Once Hamish Gordon is incarcerated and the law has dealt with him in the appropriate manner, his wife will eventually consider remarrying. Believe me, Claire Gordon is no fool. She is still relatively young and –'

William looked askance. ‘You cannot be suggesting me? The woman is positively old.'

‘Making you most attractive to her, besides Claire Gordon is most becoming. She is markedly younger than her current husband and youthful in appearance. And, my lad, taking this woman as your wife does not preclude you from the company of younger, more attractive, shall we say, more vigorous women.'

William nodded thoughtfully. He was beginning to understand how his father had managed to amass such a fortune. It had everything to do with tenacity and planning and very little to do with luck.

Sarah opened the cedar wardrobe in her grandfather's room. She was sure she recalled seeing a chest inside but blankets and plastic-wrapped woollen jumpers filled the bottom portion while suits, tweed jackets and shirts hung above. She pushed her hand between the squishy softness, smelling naphthalene and stale air and the faintest whiff of mice. She would need to set some traps to stop them from nesting among Angus's belongings. Again she pushed her hand in, this time managing to dislodge a storey-high pile of blankets. They tumbled outwards onto the carpeted floor and there, just to the left, was the glimmer of metal. Sarah stacked armfuls of folded articles to one side until finally the dented chest was revealed. She pulled it forward from the recesses of the cupboard. It landed with a dull thud on the bedroom floor, a tarnished padlock rattling with the movement. In the cupboard she found a sturdy metal shoehorn and, wedging the end in the padlock, she twisted the horn back and forth. The old lock snapped easily.

Sarah squatted down in front of the chest. She didn't know exactly what she expected to discover, except that there now seemed to be three issues at stake: Jim's inheritance and Anthony's development plan, which in turn appeared to have raised questions about the Gordons' past. The lid gave a squeak of complaint and then the overhead light illuminated a piece of folded red cloth. A musky scent pervaded the room; a hint of tobacco wafted about her. Sarah lifted the cloth tentatively, wondering whose hand had last reached for the contents and under what circumstances.

There they were. The historic ledgers her grandfather talked about: All the station ledgers since the settlement of Wangallon. Sarah carefully lifted one out. It was cloth-bound, dated 1907. She carefully turned the creamy pages. A tight hand had recorded the minute happenings of station life: dates and stock movements, weather conditions and acquisitions, supplies and sales. There were detailed lists of canvas sacks of flour and potatoes, condensed milk, cod-liver oil and beechams pills, tobacco and wooden pipes, nails, cast iron buckets, bridles and saddles, bolts of material and sewing thread. This was the year of West Wangallon's purchase and the conditions of sale, acreage and purchase price were all noted down. There was also a hand-drawn map of the property on one of the ledgers' pages and a carefully folded copy of the deeds. Searching through the remaining books, Sarah found each one meticulously filled out. This was going to be relatively easy, she decided, selecting the ledger dated 1909, the year Boxer's Plains was purchased. Sarah merely needed to know who Hamish purchased the block from and then she would have a starting point for further investigations. She ran her fingers through the entries and was stunned to find that after late January the rest of the ledger was blank. There was no reference to Boxer's Plains, no details of stock movements, not even acquisition lists of station supplies. She sat with her legs tucked under her, double-checking the ledger
contents. The only points of interest were the dates noted for full moons in December and January 1909 and a remark about missing cattle thought to be on Crawford Corner.

‘That's just weird.'

At the bottom of the chest were numerous letters tied with ribbon. Sarah flicked through them, discovering that many of them were either to or from Hamish Gordon's solicitor, the firm Shaw-Michaels. She sat back heavily on the floor. The Gordons had been dealing with the same firm for over one hundred years – no wonder Frank Michaels was so involved. With renewed interest she skimmed some of the letters. There were instructions regarding a will belonging to Lorna Sutton of Ridge Gully. Apparently the entire estate was to be left to a woman named Elizabeth. Sarah had never heard of her. There were also wool shipment information and proceeds, bills of sale and purchase orders for supplies including a new dray and a number of horses. But there was no deed for Boxer's Plains. Right at the bottom of the chest was a gold fob watch, a knotted dirty grey handkerchief, which appeared to have dirt in it, and a mourning card. Sarah opened the card and instantly found herself staring into the craggy face of her great-grandfather. The black and white photograph showed him as an older man although his eyes were alert, almost defiant. Beneath the picture was his name and a line from Psalm 27.

‘The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom shall I fear.'

The hairs stuck up on the back of Sarah's neck as she turned the card over. On the reverse was a grainy photograph of a woman aged somewhere in her thirties or forties. How bizarre, Sarah thought, she looks a bit like me. Lifting the small photograph with the corner of her fingernail, she peeled it from the cardboard backing. A name was visible: Elizabeth.

‘Elizabeth.' Presumably the Elizabeth willed Mrs Sutton's estate, Sarah decided, as she repacked everything in the tin chest except for the fob watch, and shoved the trunk back into the corner of
the wardrobe. This wasn't getting her anywhere and with a return trip to Sydney looming, there were other things to concentrate on, like Anthony.

Sarah returned to her empty room. Anthony had not returned during the night and now as dawn clambered over the horizon she looked at the ruby engagement ring on the bedside table. It spoke so much of hope and the future, both Wangallon's and hers, so why couldn't she just put the damn thing on forever and say I do? Dressing warmly in a beige skivvy, matching jumper and jeans, Sarah swept the fob watch from the dresser. She flicked the small latch on the side and the cover sprung open to reveal the watch face. On the inside of the lid were inscribed the initials
HG
. Sarah touched the engraving, shut the lid and found herself looking over her shoulder. Don't be silly, she chided herself as a shiver ran down her spine. She slid the watch and chain into the pocket of her jeans.

She needed to get outside for a few hours before readying to meet the Sydney plane and she needed to see Anthony. If they didn't try to patch things up soon, there would be an awfully large hole to jump. She needed to hold out the olive branch while ensuring the development ceased. No matter what else may have occurred, Frank Michaels was right. Wangallon didn't need any bad press. Not if they went to court. The question was, should they go to court or should she take everyone's advice and just accept the inevitable.

A light fog clung to the waking day. Trees were blurred by the chilly whiteness of the air. Bullet was by Sarah's side immediately, yawning, stretching and rubbing his head against her calf muscle. ‘Where's Ferret?' Bullet flicked his head towards the tank stand. Ferret was begrudgingly dragging himself upwards. ‘Come on then.' Sarah tapped the dog's water bowl with a stick, cracking the thin layer of ice on top, then with the two dogs in tow, they walked across ground hard with cold. Sarah listened as the rising
wind carried the sounds of sheep crying across the paddocks, calling for their early born lambs. Elsewhere the bellowing of a bull reverberated across the rustle of grasses as the moist scent of the earth mingled with whiffs of herbage: some grown brittle by cold, others gathering in intensity as they awakened to a new day.

The Landcruisers were parked in the machinery shed and Sarah headed there. She thought she'd catch up with the musterers before they dispersed across Boxer's Plains. Maybe see Matt and say hi to Pancake. She was doing her best not to think about Toby. She certainly didn't expect to see Anthony with his head under the bonnet of the mobile work truck when she walked around the corner of the shed.

‘We really need to talk,' she said.

He'd not heard her approaching and bashed his head on the hood. ‘Bugger it.' He rubbed his head viciously. ‘When are you off?'

‘Lunchtime.'

‘What are you going to do?'

She shrugged her shoulders. Swallowing her pride she walked towards him, wrapped her arms about his body. ‘I thought we could talk about it.' He smelled of oil and grease and the reassuring aroma of the man in her life. She kept her arms wrapped around him, willing him to hug her back. His arms hung by his sides. Sarah persevered, nestling her cheek against the raspy cold of his heavy work jacket. You have to give in, she pleaded silently. There has to be a bridging between us. She snuggled closer until her nose pressed hard against his neck. It was then he relented, with the touch of skin against skin. His arms lifted to encircle her and then his mouth touched hers. Sarah wriggled with delight at his touch. His hands pressed firm on her waist, he drew her to him roughly, bent her head almost fiercely and kissed her. She could sense the wanting between them. It hung in the air. They'd been
too long apart, too long arguing. They needed to go back to the house and rid themselves of their need. Sarah's fingers plucked at his shirt tail, her forefinger touched flesh … and then Anthony was physically removing her hands from his body.

Sarah found herself two steps away from him, cold air encircling her, the burn of embarrassment and disappointment flooding her cheeks. They looked at each other for a long moment, and then Anthony turned away. She stood there feeling stupid, wondering what she should do next. ‘Anthony?'

He slammed the bonnet down on the work truck, wiped his hands on a filthy rag.

‘Anthony, I need you.'

Leaning through the window on the driver's side, Anthony turned the ignition, listened to the chug of the engine for a good minute and then turned it off. The stench of black exhaust fumes whirled around them in the increasing breeze. When he finally turned to look at her, there was something missing from his eyes.

‘You only need me when it suits you.' He walked past her, got into one of the cruisers, reversed out of the shed and drove away.

Sarah waited until the last moment, sure he would stop the vehicle and come back to her. A billow of dust shadowed his departure. Moments later Bullet was licking her fingers.

Toby Williams walked his horse around the corner of the shed. ‘Morning. Wondering if Ant got the old truck going? We need the welder on the back.'

Sarah wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. ‘Yep, sounds like it's going.'

He hesitated. ‘Are you okay?' He fiddled with his bridle, made a show of scratching his mare between the ears.

‘Fine.'

He nodded in the direction Anthony had left. ‘You know what they call 'em in Wangallon Town? The jackeroo.'

‘Oh.'

‘I've still got a half-share in my place: a million wild acres in the territory. There's no chip on my shoulder. Hey Pancake,' he shouted. ‘The truck's a goer. I'll leave it with you.'

‘No worries,' Pancake yelled from somewhere behind the shed.

He rode across to her. ‘Do you remember what I said to you last night?'

‘Yes.'

Toby tipped his hat, gave her a look that would stop a woman at a thousand paces and rode away.

Great, Sarah thought. Just as well he was going out on the stock route. He cantered off, leaving Sarah to wonder how much of the scene between her and Anthony he'd witnessed. She figured their lovers' tiff would make good campfire talk on the route tonight, except that it was a great deal more than a tiff.

‘Come on fellas.' Bullet jumped into the back of the cruiser and Sarah lifted Ferret up to join him. ‘Time for a drive.'

At the sheltered clearing waking birds tweeted, fluffed and preened themselves against a background of leaves rustling in the wind. Sarah opened the latch on the wooden gate and Bullet brushed past her legs into the cemetery, bush quails fluttering upwards in fright at their sudden disturbance. The clearing, silvery with the remnants of the frost, appeared to shiver with morning energy. Sarah stared at the headstones. The ageing monuments appeared to guard each other. There was a sense of sadness here, it was true; however, more often it was hope that seemed to hover in this special place. Above her, through the canopy of trees the sky brightened with the rising of the sun. They were all here. All of those who had come before her: three generations of Gordons both known and unknown to her. Overhead, a flutter of wings accompanied the mournful call of an owl. The frogmouth left the
tall gum tree to soar above her, its wings increasing in beat until the owl swooped, gliding through the tightly packed leaves that wept the scent of eucalyptus. It landed lightly, its claws grappling the headstone of her great-grandfather Hamish Gordon.

She studied the stonemason's handiwork, the height and depth of the H and G. There was no date of death noted on the gravestone, only a date of birth with a hyphen beside it, as if he was destined for immortality. Sarah squatted amid the grasses. There were too many issues in her head; too many problems that needed to be sorted and then addressed in order of importance. Her thoughts returned to Anthony. She loved Anthony yet he'd been unsupportive and inconsiderate and seemed now to be beyond discussing anything with her. She needed someone who would live with, care for and work beside her; not a man who became emotionally challenged and stubborn when his management was questioned. She was the Gordon after all. Anthony needed to understand and respect that. If he couldn't there was no future for them as a couple. Sarah twisted off a blade of grass and chewed on the pale green sweetness of it. Maybe he wasn't meant to be a part of her future. Maybe he had come into her life for a reason and now the time had come for him to leave. She wasn't the grief-stricken teenager or the ignored daughter anymore. She had grown up, was learning to live without the solid presence of her grandfather, had let go of her unstable mother and was capable and prepared to lead Wangallon into the future.