The Bark Cutters (3 page)

Tonight he intended to pass the baton to the next custodian of Wangallon. The challenges facing the heir apparent lay shrouded in the future and would only be realised with his own personal
demise, yet his choice required advance notice, both for the longevity of the property and for his own satisfaction. After all, he
was
Wangallon and like his father before him, this decision was his alone. He just wished that things could have been different. But the past could not be revisited. He had to make do with the here and now. So he chose to feign ignorance and do what both the family and the outside world expected. It was the only way to protect the Gordon name and reputation.

At the three cement steps leading to the back door of the house Angus paused for his dog, Shrapnel. The part kelpie, part blue cattle dog was a sappy young pup with more bounce than a kangaroo in him and the type of surly loyalty that Angus appreciated.

‘Sit.'

The dog, wagging its tail, took up position on the top step and gave a low growl. Angus cocked his left eyebrow. ‘Got a bit of attitude, have we?' Patting the pup roughly on the head, he grinned, showing irregular shaped teeth tinged yellow by time. ‘Good.'

‘Evening all.' Angus greeted his family in the kitchen where they were assembled like a flock of sulphur-crested cockatoos suddenly gone quiet. The table was set for dinner and a passable bottle of merlot lay open and waiting. ‘If we could all sit,' he suggested. He sniffed the air, taking in the large pot on the stove and the saucepan of peas next to it. His preferred meal of steak, fried eggs and coleslaw was looking mighty appealing. Accepting a glass of wine from his son, Angus waited for his two grandchildren to stop fidgeting. It had been some time since his last visit to West Wangallon, firstly because this was another man's castle and secondly because of his absolute inability to suffer stupidity.

‘Angus, I thought perhaps we could have dinner first.'

The wine wasn't half bad, so Angus helped himself to a top-up. ‘Thank you, Sue, however I've never been a great fan of stew –' he
paused, the momentary silence emphasising his disdain – ‘as you well know.' He watched as his daughter-in-law's features tightened on her face until she was all parallel lines, with a smear of red lipstick. ‘This won't take long. I don't want to deprive the rest of you from your evening meal.' Winking at Sarah he leant forward in his chair. ‘First, I would like Sarah to have these.' From his pocket he withdrew a long strand of opera-length pearls. Placing them firmly in his granddaughter's palm, he cupped a sun-mottled hand over hers and looked deep into the violet eyes that were the one sure indication of the girl's Scottish lineage. ‘She wanted you to have them, dear girl. They were her favourites.'

‘Thank you, Grandfather,' Sarah beamed, her fingers brushing the luminous nacre of each pearl.

‘She's a little young, Angus, for such gifts,' Sue interrupted.

Angus countered the woman's tone with a deep scowl, his eyes remaining fixed on her until she turned towards the stove and the bubbling mutton.

‘Second, her apartment in Centennial Park in Sydney is also yours, Sarah.'

‘Well, I never,' Sue mumbled.

Sarah felt her breath catch in her throat. ‘But Grandfather …'

‘It's currently being rented. After body corporate fees and agency charges etcetera have been deducted, the rental income is being deposited into an account in your name. You can't touch it until you're twenty, however. Agreed?'

Sarah nodded her head vigorously. Fabulous jewels and now an apartment of her very own. Heavens, she really couldn't believe it.

‘That's very generous, Dad,' Ronald said slowly.

Angus stifled a cough. ‘Yes, well, been meaning to do it. I've a mind to keep hold of the rest of Angie's trinkets for a bit longer. A man can't let go of too much too soon.'

‘It's been three years,' Sue reminded him.

Angus stared in reply until Sue's plump middle-aged arse turned quickly from the table back to the stove.

‘We understand, Dad,' Ronald said softly.

‘Yes, well.' Angus cleared his throat and took another sip of wine. ‘Now, Cameron my boy, what are your plans?'

‘My plans? Well, um …'

‘Everyone has plans, lad,' he interrupted impatiently. ‘You've finished your schooling. So what do you want to do? Agricultural college, business administration in the city for twelve months, two years on a big holding in the territory?'

‘Actually I'd rather stay here,' Cameron said quickly. Only last week he had overheard his father on the telephone discussing the merits of various agricultural colleges and he could not think of anything worse. None of those places could teach him anything that he couldn't learn on Wangallon.

‘Of course you would, darling,' Sue smiled, coming to rest her hand on her son's shoulder.

‘A bit of experience probably wouldn't hurt,' Ronald suggested.

‘I totally disagree,' Sue pounced. ‘There's absolutely no need for that, Ronald.'

‘Save the bickering for when I'm out of earshot, will you, Sue,' Angus stood abruptly facing his grandson, who was equal in height if, he decided, not quite in intelligence. ‘Wangallon and West Wangallon will be yours one day, lad. It's taken our family a mighty effort to be able to pass it on to a fourth generation, so –' he paused for emphasis, waiting until the only noise audible in the kitchen was the sizzling of simmering packet peas – ‘don't piss it up against a wall.'

Cameron squared his shoulders and looked his grandfather directly in the eye. ‘I won't, Grandfather.' The weight of responsibility crossed the few feet between them. Cameron felt it hover
undecided before him, before reversing in direction. It was easy to say yes when he was third in line, for if anything happened to his grandfather, Cameron figured his father would swoop on the opportunity to manage the sprawling property.

‘It's a mighty responsibility. My father, Hamish, did it hard, really hard, don't you forget it. And I have to make sure that you're equal to the task, so if you want extra experience you let me know.'

‘I'll do that. Thank you.' They shook on it.

Angus placed his hand on the boy's shoulder; pale blue pupils blinked back at him. ‘I suggest you do a correspondence bookkeeping course. Next year I'll send you down to Sydney for six weeks to a friend of mine who runs an accountancy firm.'

‘Okay,' Cameron answered a little less enthusiastically. He knew Sarah should be the one doing all the technical stuff. Benchmarking, new innovations and financial things were subjects he'd never been good at, besides, it made sense, Sarah wanted to stay at Wangallon as well. ‘What about –'

‘You might know a bit about stock, lad,' Angus continued, ‘but you need to know a fair bit more about budgets, projected cash flows and general bookkeeping procedures. As of next week I expect you to spend the last Friday of each month in the station office with my bookkeeper. She'll familiarise you with our general office procedures.' With his business completed, Angus recovered his wine glass, swirling the contents contemplatively. ‘Good, that's settled.' A dry aftertaste sat unquenched in his throat, he decided against another top-up, a very fine Grange awaited him at his home. ‘Well, Anthony seems to be handling himself.'

‘Yes,' Ronald agreed. ‘The lad's quite capable.'

‘The boy has ability and brains. I thought you two could use someone your own age around here for a change,' he concluded, directing this last comment towards his two grandchildren. ‘I expect him to be treated like a member of the family, with respect
and courtesy. I have a few things in mind for young Anthony. Well, I'll be leaving you to it then. Goodnight.'

Sarah walked her grandfather to the back door. ‘Thank you,' she whispered, standing on her toes to kiss his sun-baked cheek.

‘Consider it a bit of extra security, girl.'

‘I will.'

‘Good. Well then you better go and have some of your mother's infamous stew.'

Sarah turned her nose up as he winked, opening the back door.

‘Wait,' Angus fumbled in his pocket, holding out a beaten gold bracelet. ‘Just a trinket. It belonged to your great-grandfather's first wife I think. Anyway, thought you should have it,' he finished gruffly.

Sarah closed the door, watching his figure merge into the darkness of the night, his voice low and melodic as he spoke quietly to his new pup. At the kitchen doorway, she watched as Cameron quickly shovelled stew and peas into his mouth, their parents already arguing. He looked up once, rolled his eyes at her and then resumed eating, using his fork and index finger to scoop up bits of onion and carrot. Walking slowly back to her own seat, Sarah poked disinterestedly at her meal. A momentous event still hung in the Gravox-infused air of the kitchen, yet nothing was altered. Her parents were still arguing and her brother, having scoffed down his dinner, would soon disappear for a secret roll-your-own ciggie behind the old iron rainwater tank at the rear of the garden. She felt his elbow in her ribs and knew he would be giving her the two finger lazy victory sign for a quiet smoke. Shaking her head, Sarah reached across to take her mother's untouched glass of wine. Throwing the contents back she swallowed a mouthful of the dark red liquid in a peppery gulp, ignoring the urgent swivelling action of her brother's head. In front of her lay the pearls that had belonged to her
grandmother and a rather beaten-up gold bangle. Before her brother lay Wangallon. The wine left a slight burning sensation in her throat.

Ronald sat quietly in his office, sipping freshly brewed coffee, as a light breeze stirred the papers on his desk. Through the venetian blinds wild budgerigars were busy fluffing their feathers in a tall stringy bark, as willy-wagtails dive bombed the sprinkler on the lawn. The seasons were kind to the inhabitants of the north-west at the moment. Over the past year, above-average rainfall had increased the natural feed in the paddocks, ensuring well fed cattle and sheep, optimising the growth of grain. The ledger said it all: a year of sweet green grass and excellent clover cover, of wheat and barley crops exceeding normal expectations at harvest, of sheep nearing a record lambing, of cattle not far behind. Even the prices were positive at the moment, which meant Sue could travel to Sydney for ten days and give everyone a break.

God it was peaceful this morning, Ronald mused, as he finished paying the monthly fuel account. He had given himself a timeline of about ten years; he then intended to retire to the coast. He figured by that stage Cameron would be running the property, Sarah would probably be married and he could escape the land he'd been tied to all his life. Sometimes his situation reminded him of the British monarchy. He had waited half a lifetime to inherit, only to realise that his own father was never going to abdicate. Some years ago he would have been jealous of Cameron, but not now.

Years ago he believed that his father knew of the error of judgement that had been made within the walls of his marriage. There appeared to be no other possible explanation for his refusal to allow him more freedom to manage the property. And it would
be characteristic of Angus to exact some type of payback for the detriment past actions could cause to the family name. Yet over time Ronald could not be sure, for Angus never broached the subject. Eventually Ronald simply assumed that his father was more interested in a lump of dirt than his own family. Angus gifted him the 5,000 acres dubbed West Wangallon on which to build his marital home, however, the 120,000 odd acres that comprised Wangallon remained tightly within his control.

Yet Ronald still loved Wangallon, especially now when her fertile earth swelled with life and he could actually plan and see a positive result from his labours. At night he dreamed of fields of golden wheat, awakening to find himself lying on his side with his hand outstretched, his fingers brushing the heads of imaginary grain laden with the prime hard wheat so loved by the flour mills. At other times sheep leaped into his subconscious to munch on spring herbage as he sat beneath the protective arms of an old coolibah in a rattan chair. Such dreams, such moments, were made more beautiful when contrasted with the endless hot, drought ridden months experienced intermittently over the last forty years. The memory of riding his horse back through a biting westerly wind, his face and eyes stinging from sunburn and flying grit after arduous hours of checking bore drains and dams for bogged stock – this was reality on Wangallon. Yes, Ronald mused, if he had his life over, Wangallon's enticements would fail to entrap him a second time. She was a hard mistress, and unlike Sue, could not be calmed with valium and an extra shot of whiskey in the evening.

A zephyr of air flowed through the gauze window to gently vibrate the blinds. Putting the station cheque book to one side, he breathed in the morning stillness and rummaged in the desk drawer to retrieve a selection of black and white photographs secreted beneath a wad of yellowing bank statements. There were pictures of small crofters' cottages, shots of the Scottish
Highlands and one of a young woman smiling brightly into the camera. He thumbed through the ageing photographs, pausing at last at the neat cottage and the slim beauty standing outside the front door. Turning the picture over, a burly thumb traced the ink writing:
Outskirts of the village of Tongue, Scotland 1961
.