A Changing Land (36 page)

For the second time in a week Maggie strode towards the ruin, emboldened by the hearty walk and a sense of daring unknown to her for years. It rose above the surrounding countryside to sit proudly upon the summit of the hill, and whispered to her of bloody siege battles in one age and illicit liaisons in another. The wind whipped her hair into her eyes, stinging her with the icy scent of the North Sea as she circumnavigated the tower and approached the cliff face, exhilarated. Below lay a distant inlet and a long low bridge carrying cars across it. Beyond a sleety mist was banked on the rocky shoreline across the water. She turned back towards her own home country, the sea wind biting at her neck. Cottages dotted fields, curling smoke rose prettily from every house and chunks of peaty land were cut away from the hills as if a giant had stooped down to take a bite from a tasty morsel. She walked cautiously towards the ruin, a jumble of rocks making her leapfrog slowly from one uneven surface to another. Another day she would have jumped them. Another time she would have
hitched her skirts and stretched her legs across slabs scarred by centuries. Not today. Maggie drew air slivered with cold into her lungs and whistled a sketchy tune as she stepped up onto the narrow threshold of the ruin.

She ducked her head through the opening to smell musty earth and unused space. It was dark inside. A small crack in the wall let in a line of light that crept across the dirt floor to trace the stone on the opposite side. Maggie stretched her arms wide to touch either side of the ancient doorway. It was a jump down, aye, she remembered that, for at the time excitement consumed her and she was too distracted to consider the gap between daylight and darkness. Her hands ran along the rocky walls seeking support. Gingerly lowering her body she sat squarely on the entry stones, her feet solid on the ground below. She stood unsteadily as if the light had taken her balance and with it the years between then and now. She was a girl again, her body lithe, her feet supple and her need great.

Maggie sat back on the stone ledge. Remembering the past was always messy. One had a habit of sifting the good bits out so that the bad floated away with time. Here in the ruin she had laid with Ronald Gordon nearly three decades ago and to this day the seeping cold of the earth against her bare buttocks, his wet kisses and a howling wind that encircled the stone walls about them were the three things she recalled. It was hardly romantic. The rest of the night dropped away from her as surely as she'd stepped into the abyss beyond the cliff, for Ronald told her he was leaving Scotland and although she pleaded until not a shred of pride
was left within her, he was to go alone. Maggie could not blame Ronald. Not then or now. He was a man like any other, and he took what she so foolishly offered. And she was the woman who believed irrationally in the strength of her wanting.

Afterwards, having begged him not to leave her, Ronald touched her cheek, wiped a tear from her clammy skin with his thumb. His own skin was tough and calloused and his tenderness left a scratch of concern where his kiss once was. ‘You will be a great runner,' he praised her, lifting her clutching fingers free of his arm. ‘One Scotland will be proud of.'

She'd not the heart to tell him that her cherished dream would never eventuate; she'd not yet admitted it fully to herself.

He left the ruin at daylight and Maggie followed his receding figure as if he were a hallucination. Ronald Gordon was the embodiment of many a Scot's dream. His forefathers, having left during impoverished times, were now equal to many of the lords of England in their Australian holding. They were an example of what could be done. They were what the Scottish youth in the north country aspired to; for Hamish Gordon had accomplished what seemed impossible, why couldn't another?

Not once did Ronald Gordon look back at her. Not once did Ronald show regret. But she regretted. Maggie sat on a cracked stone slab. Irregular patches of springy turf were interspersed with wind-bared soil. Tiredness was inching its way through her and the thought of the long downhill trek brought tears to her eyes. She thought of the unwanted child borne of her wishing and planning: There was real love there now. She could only hope Jim came home safe and that their lives remained intact. For her mother always believed that one couldn't escape their destiny. And that was what Maggie was most afraid of.

Sarah strode purposefully along Elizabeth Street. The rising wind whipped her auburn hair into her eyes and mouth and she plucked at the fine strands, blinking at the midday chill. She tasted the grit of smog, listening to the deafening hum of cars, trucks, people and horns as she sidestepped rolling soft-drink cans, paper, people and a small white dog. Instantly she thought of Bullet, of her horse Tess, of the birds, the space, the air. Here Sarah only sublet the space she walked in and even that was curtailed by the width of the pavement and the press of bodies. The cold shadows of a great city emphasised the towering offices and she wished for quiet and space and unpolluted air. Clutching Frank's parcel to her chest, Sarah walked on until she found a restaurant. She requested a table and then asked to use their telephone. Twenty minutes later Shelley walked into the restaurant.

‘Well this is a surprise,' Shelley announced, her excited voice cutting through the air as she walked to the window table where
Sarah sat. She was wearing a blue and white hound's-tooth suit with padded shoulders, a short skirt and a silky white blouse. High-heeled white shoes completed the look. She looked very Princess Di. They hugged briefly.

‘Trust you to find this hole in the wall,' Shelley glanced around the small space, ‘although I like the clientele.' The restaurant was filling slowly with businessmen dressed in regulation black and charcoal grey suits. Shelley smiled brightly, enticing a couple of admiring glances. Giggling, she patted her carefully coiffed blonde hair and straightened her back. ‘Boring lot. Anyway, what are you doing down here?' Sarah was gazing out the window. ‘What? Something dreadful has happened, hasn't it? You look exhausted and sad.'

Sarah ordered two glasses of red wine from the disinterested waitress.

‘Anyone would think we were in Europe with that attitude,' Shelley scowled as the girl sauntered away.

‘Annoyed, pissed off, furious is how I am,' Sarah admitted after taking two sips of the wine. It was hot and peppery. What she really needed was a glass of water. ‘Think about the very worst thing that could happen to me.' She swirled the wine in the glass and gestured to the waitress.

Shelley grimaced at the taste of her own wine and put her glass down. ‘Oh, not Anthony. Don't tell me you two have had a shocking argument over that bloody property. Sarah, I've told you in the past if you want to keep him you have to defer to him just a little. Men like that.'

‘Defer to him? Defer to him?'

Shelley looked over her shoulder, now they
were
getting attention, the unwanted sort. ‘Shh. He adores you.'

‘Waitress,' Sarah called loudly. The girl approached warily. ‘This wine is undrinkable.'

The girl flattened her lips and placed a thin bony hand on her hip.

Shelley's eyes widened in surprise at Sarah's tone. ‘Umm, maybe you could get us two glasses of chardonnay,' she asked politely. ‘Something really chilled, and two of the fettuccine and chicken.' She glanced at Sarah for confirmation and received a dull-eyed stare in return. The waitress smiled tightly, wrote down their order and left. ‘You better tell me what's going on.'

‘Jim Macken has arrived in Australia. He wants his thirty per cent of Wangallon.'

Shelley found herself lifting the barely drinkable wine and taking a big gulp. Sarah's eyes were wide as organ stops, her usually tanned face devoid of colour except for two bright spots on her cheeks.

‘The bastard thinks I'll just bow down and take it up the proverbial.'

Shelley spluttered. ‘Excuse me?'

‘Well he's got another thing coming.' Sarah's voice dropped.

The chardonnay arrived. ‘Bring the bottle,' Shelley stated with an urgent nod to the waitress.

‘He thinks he'll get it too. You should have seen that solicitor of his insinuating that Wangallon was built on dubious activities. For god's sake, everyone stole a few head of stock back in the 1800s. He's got another thing coming too.' Sarah met Shelley's concerned stare. ‘We'll be going to court.'

‘Geez, to court, Sarah? You're not going to contest your grandfather's will?'

Sarah took a sip of wine. The action calmed her.

‘You're going to contest Angus Gordon's will.' Shelley could barely believe what she was hearing. Angus's word had always been law in the Gordon family. ‘You can't do that.'

Sarah's eyes hardened.

‘Hey, I'm on your side. Remember? What does Anthony say?'

‘You don't want to know.'

‘So he's against it?'

‘Anthony has his own problems at the moment. I'm his and he's mine.' Sarah drained her wine glass as the fettuccine arrived. She stabbed at the steaming bowl with her fork, chewed three mouthfuls in quick succession and then pushed the bowl to one side.

‘Talk to Anthony. He's always supported you in the past.'

Sarah laughed and poured more wine for the both of them. ‘Not anymore. Those days are over.'

Shelley shook her head. ‘Sarah, you two love each other. Surely you can work together on this. Isn't your relationship worth it?'

Sarah's love for Anthony was absolute, however a relationship fractured by deceit was difficult to repair. Yesterday morning was proof of that. ‘Quite frankly, Shelley, I don't know if it is.'

‘Sarah, Anthony and Wangallon are your life.'

Sarah thought about Wangallon: the expanse of sky that so totally engulfed the land, day and night; the sweet, unpolluted breath of the aged trees that stood sentinel along waterways; and the rich soil with its wavering vegetation that billowed across the great landscape like waves on the ocean. That was love, pure and unconditional. It was the type of love she once had for Anthony. Now only Wangallon remained constant.

‘What are you going to do?' Shelley dabbed at the cream sauce on her bottom lip.

Outside the window the street looked cold and bleak. ‘There has to be a test to confirm Jim's parentage and then we will go to court.'

‘Confirm his parentage?' This was like listening to something out of
The Bold and the Beautiful.

‘It's a pretty standard thing in cases like this.'

Shelley took Sarah's hand, pulling her attention from the window back to reality. ‘And what if you lose? Sarah, what if you
lose part of Wangallon and Anthony. What then?'

Sarah shook her off. ‘I can't think about that. I have to go to court and I have to win.'

‘What about your father?' Shelley persevered. ‘Surely he has some suggestions.'

‘Yes, but not what I want to hear. And … Mum's dead. Can you believe it? On top of everything else.' She folded her hands in her lap.

‘Oh I'm sorry, Sarah. Can I do anything?' Like grieve on your behalf, Shelley offered silently. She knew there was no love lost between mother and daughter yet surely there was some remaining bond left that warranted at least regret. Maybe not, Shelley decided. Sarah's violet eyes were unblinking, except that she was looking a bit like a rabbit caught in a vehicle's headlights.

She shook her head. ‘Dad thinks it's best for Jim to get his share so everyone can get on with their lives.'

Shelley was beginning to think the same. ‘Go home, talk to Anthony. Whatever has happened between you two, you know he loves you. Anthony has always been there for you, Sarah. He's always been at Wangallon. You can't tell me you would want to live out the back of Woop Woop without him by your side.'

Sarah drained her wine glass. ‘You understand that I have to do this. I can't let some upstart from the other side of the world take any part of Wangallon. My family created Wangallon. They toiled for her, built her,' she swallowed, ‘and some died for her.'

Shelley thought immediately of Cameron. ‘You mean died on the property,' she corrected. ‘What's that?'

Sarah opened the palm of her hand. ‘My great-grandfather's fob watch.' She clutched at it. ‘I'm the custodian of Wangallon. It's up to me if no one else wants to help fight to protect her. I can't help it, Shelley. I feel responsible.' She looked at the watch. ‘I feel driven.'

Shelley pulled out her wallet to pay for lunch. ‘Just be careful you don't lose anything precious along the way, Sarah. Be careful you don't lose yourself.' Sarah was staring out the window again. Shelley put fifty dollars on the table and sighed. She knew people eventually needed to grow up and accept their responsibilities, however surely Anthony and Ronald wouldn't let Sarah carry this burden alone. She was worried for Sarah and concerned for her future. There was a determined set to her jaw and it was with dismay that she recognised a similarity to Sarah's own grandfather, the tetchy Angus Gordon. ‘Promise me you will consider things carefully before making the decision to go to court. Promise me you will talk to Anthony.'

‘I have to go. I have to try to get on a flight home and I need to be at the surgery by 3 pm.'

Shelley experienced a sense of foreboding. ‘Take care.' Her friend gave her an excuse for a smile. Shelley grabbed her wrist. ‘Please call me if I can help.'

Sarah extricated herself and gave Shelley a brief kiss on the check. ‘I will.' They both knew she wouldn't.

The chardonnay left a sour aftertaste in Shelley's mouth as Sarah walked out of the restaurant. Her friend hitched her handbag over a shoulder, clutched a brown paper bag to her chest and dipped her head into the wind. Shelley shivered, recalling the old saying about someone walking over your grave. The dictates of Sarah's ancestors were haunting her from their tree-shaded plots and Shelley knew that no matter what anyone advised, Sarah would take the hardest path. She always had. The girl was drawn to Wangallon and was clearly determined to protect it. But then with a history like the Gordons, what did she expect. There was going to be some fallout, Shelley decided as she winked at a dark-haired man near the restaurant door.

Jim waited patiently on the opposite corner of the street near Hyde Park, feeling guilty at his newly acquired skill. His decision to follow Sarah after the meeting with their respective lawyers had been borne of both anger and frustration. There was a fight looming, one he wanted to avoid if possible. He had planned on confronting Sarah without the ‘suits' and suggest they try to discuss things amicably, although now he realised how naive he had been and his initial readiness to confront her had been replaced with indecision and tiredness.

Jim watched as Sarah left the restaurant alone, eventually dawdling in front of the David Jones department store window. Her long, glossy hair blew in the wind as she readjusted her handbag, before turning the corner. Jim dashed across the lanes of traffic to follow her, narrowly missing two taxis and a bus. Sarah walked quickly and Jim found himself ducking between pedestrians and apologising for his rudeness as he circumnavigated the crowds at the next set of traffic lights and stepped blindly in front of a lady in a wheelchair. Eventually he found himself in Pitt Street Mall. There was no sign of Sarah.

Jim sat heavily on a wooden bench and listened blankly as two young office workers discussed the death of a friend's parent. The widow was taking it very badly. So badly that sedatives were being used and their girlfriend was moving back home on the advice of their family doctor. Jim pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it carefully. Tony Woodbridge had located his birth father's address in Queensland. Ronald Gordon lived on the Gold Coast and his wife, Sue, Sarah's mother, was recently deceased.

‘They'll be grieving for months, that lot.' The rather rotund girl commented on Jim's left.

‘You're not wrong, Kylie. Once you lose someone close it takes months for people to get over it,' her friend added, ‘if they ever do'.

On the flight from Scotland, Jim had wondered what it would
be like to meet his birth father. He'd had visions of a welcoming reunion, of being literally embraced by the man who was his real father. Now he knew the reality was very different. Ronald Gordon had known of Jim's existence for years and he hadn't bothered to make his acquaintance before this. The death of Sarah's mother was unlikely to change Ronald's attitude. The real barrier between them, Jim guessed, wasn't time and absence. It was Wangallon. Sarah was obsessed with the property and she was her father's daughter, and Jim Macken was the unwanted lad from Scotland who could ruin a close family's heritage.

There was a young busker standing only a few feet away from where Jim sat. He was singing along to music from a tape recorder. His voice verged on the ordinary, yet any coin that came his way was greeted with such a wondrous smile that he invariably found the donation doubled. There was a person, Jim decided, who was happy in his own skin. He was making his own way in the world and not taking anything that he hadn't made himself. Jim thought of his Scottish parents and wished he was back home. Next week, he promised himself. Next week, after the tests are back he'd book his return flight home. He wasn't going to stay here with no friends to support him. He was paying his lawyer a fortune so Woodbridge could handle everything in his absence.