The Bark Cutters (33 page)

‘Hmm. Bloody bookmakers.'

Dust swirled across the racetrack, hitting the crowds dispersing from the trophy presentation. Women clutched frantically at their hats as their partners walked swiftly to escape the wind. Buffeted by gusts of air and dirt, Sarah and her grandfather battled the remnants of the luncheon throng gathered around the boots of cars and retreated to one of forty vehicles lined up, noses to the railing.

Sipping chilled white wine from their eskies, safe from the sting of the drought, the crowd only left the calm confines of their vehicles to place bets and watch each race. It had been a long day, the racegoers appearing more exhausted than the horses. Sarah knew the organisers would be disappointed. The meeting
was not a success. Entries were down, as were the crowds and the jovial atmosphere present last year.

Angus, his hands slightly shaky, poured coffee from a thermos. He sipped slowly, his forehead creased with age, deepening as he thought. He was still strong enough to survive a few years yet, but Wangallon's future needed to be cemented, just in case. His family, the spiritual custodians of Wangallon, relied on him to ensure that the land continued to be guarded. It was providence then that the picnic races had presented themselves as his excuse to get the girl back up from Sydney relatively quickly. It was just a matter of logistics and the timing was perfect, coming as it did following Matt Leach's interesting snippets.

‘You have got to make your mind up where you want to be, lass. Here in the bush or in the city.'

Sarah glanced at him quickly, the clear eyes composed, the hands still. Angus watched the brightly coloured riders enter the track for the next race, their mounts prancing and pawing the ground in the flying gravel. He wished they were discussing commodity prices, the purchasing of a new tractor, anything than trying to force the girl's hand. The announcer called out the name of each horse as they entered the starting gate.

‘Girl, I know you better than your parents, better than Anthony.'

‘I'm sure the grey will win this time, Grandfather.'

‘Listen to me, girl, being defensive won't help. Your father sits in the sun, staring out at the water, dwelling on his old life while Sue potters in the garden, absently growing roses. Don't throw away your life. I'm sure you don't want to end up like them.'

The race began in a flurry of muted yells. In the car next door, five adults were cheering wildly, hats knocked askew, spilt champagne dribbling down the inside rear window. Angus pretended to concentrate on the race, watching the knuckles of his granddaughter's fingers grow white as they tightened around the stem
of her wine glass. Well, he decided, at least the girl's attention was back on Wangallon. The horses screamed around the turn, and in disbelief he watched the grey pound past the winning post; yells of abuse streamed out of the car next to theirs.

‘Shall I repeat myself then?'

‘I'm not throwing away anything.'

Angus stared beyond the peeling paint of the fence, past the garish colours of the apprentice jockeys. Out there lay the only thing valuable – dirt. It was just part of the cycle: once you learned not to try to control it, just to accept it, it was easier. The droughts couldn't hurt Wangallon, nor the floods; it was far too big an enterprise for God to destroy. Only stupidity could destroy Wangallon and in the bush that usually lay with the next generation.

‘Sarah, I think you feel there is some sort of competition between you and Anthony. There isn't. You'll always be just as important to me as he is, more so because you're my girl, the only one with any guts, the same as your great-grandfather Hamish. Still, Anthony is also vital to Wangallon.' He had her attention now. ‘I have my preferences, you have your own priorities, somewhere in between the two I think we agree the current situation needs little alteration. As long as you and Anthony get on, Wangallon and the two of you will be safe and the future secure.'

‘What are you trying to tell me, Grandfather?'

‘God damn it, he's in love with you, girl, and if you would stop and smell the roses as the saying goes, you would probably realise you love him too. Damn and blast it, the world's gone mad when two young people can't see they are made for each other. I've been waiting for bloody years for you two to come to your senses. Once you do, everything will fall into place.'

‘You-you have?' Sarah stammered.

‘Didn't I just say that?' This gentle politeness took some working at. ‘Look, I'm sorry to hurry you, but I'm not getting any younger, and it's important you understand the future.'

His stare was hard, a thousand-yard stare, her brother used to call it.

‘The future?' Sarah queried.

‘A lot of our ancestors died for Wangallon and, between you and me, girl, there were shifty deals a-plenty in its acquisition. Still, the Gordons have held property in New South Wales since the late 1850s, and I know you'll agree when I say it has to be protected at all costs.'

‘At all costs?' Sarah repeated. What on earth did that mean?

‘Good! Now that I know you understand, we'll get down to basics in the morning.'

The town hall was decorated with bright streamers and balloons, while the local jazz band, its members resplendent in an assortment of black garments, played and sang with great enthusiasm on the slightly raised platform serving as a stage. The hall was filled to capacity, and laughter echoed off the high wooden ceilings and peeling walls, as wine flowed and a fragrant curry was consumed ravenously. Caught between two graziers, Sarah ate her own dinner in silence with a bottle of wine for company, as they spent forty minutes arguing good-naturedly about the economy.

‘Twenty-eight per cent, I tell you. Australia contributes around twenty-eight per cent of the world's wool production and over half of the world's wool trade.'

‘But not now, Alec. We've flogged too many prime merino rams to places like Argentina and the like.'

‘Well, I don't know, but I'll tell you one thing, you can sell as many rams as you like over there. They're not being grown in Australia, and that makes all the difference.'

To interrupt them seemed pointless, so Sarah leaned across the paper tablecloth and, pushing aside a collection of unused
plastic knives and forks, helped herself again to the rough red wine. At least it was alcohol, something to dull her grandfather's cryptic words. Love, inheritance, pride, Anthony – it was all too much. Was her grandfather insinuating that he intended to leave the property to Anthony, or to both of them to be shared equally? Or did it depend on the type of relationship she and Anthony had in the future? Sarah shook her head and took a large gulp of wine.

‘The European community is still our largest market for wool.'

‘No it's not.'

‘It is when it's real cold.'

‘Don't expect things to pick up for a while price-wise, mate. The Chinese aren't rushing to buy.'

The wine tasted much better. Still, as much as Sarah tried to numb her mind, it wasn't working. She scraped her chair back noisily, standing with equal clumsiness. Her companions looked up, gave brief farewells and resumed their disagreement. The band, now relieved of their ties and jackets, played loudly to their followers, a dedicated collection of varying age and ability, most of whom appeared to be struggling to remain upright. The men's lapels held small flowers, and the hall's decimated flower arrangements bore mute testimony to the scavengers' work.

Sarah wandered outside. A long trestle table erected beneath two stately lemon-scented gum trees lit with floodlights served as the bar. A number of forty-gallon drums stocked with wood burned brightly, and it was here that the racing crowd gathered together, jostling for both heat and alcohol. Sarah struggled through the mass of tobacco and alcohol fumes and finally, a rum and coke in hand, took a long drink. It would be her last for the night, she decided.

‘Dance?' Colin's voice was rude and demanding.

‘No thanks, Colin.' A corner of his shirt was untucked and torn, dirt stains coloured his pale trousers and his red tie was askew.

‘Come on.' He yanked her roughly by the hand, causing her drink to spill as he pulled her through the crowd of partygoers.

‘Stop it. You're hurting my hand.' Managing to extricate herself, Sarah took a step backwards.

‘You'd say yes if I was Anthony,' Colin slurred.

Sarah ignored the jibe, screwing her nose up at his breath, a potent mix of rum and cigarette smoke.

‘You continually coming up from Sydney. Woman like you. Anthony's got a great opportunity coming to him. Don't ruin it just because there is no other way for you to get hold of a piece of land your family didn't want you to have.'

Instinctively Sarah raised her hand to slap him, but he caught her wrist, squeezing it hard, a sneer spreading across his concave face. Tugging her arm back quickly, Sarah took an unsteady step backwards.

‘How dare you comment on my life? It is none of your bloody business!'

Colin's flushed face contorted, his drooling caterpillar lips drawing tightly together. ‘All of a sudden the old fella starts to get a bit of age about him and the granddaughter begins to fly in real regular, like a vulture.'

Sarah felt a surge of bile rise in her throat. ‘Colin, you're fired!' He stared back at her for a moment, his eyes disbelieving. Then he was gone, disappearing into the crowd.

Sarah left the area quickly. Groping her way through the trees bordering the edge of the Town Hall garden, at the fence she hitched her skirt up and slipped effortlessly between the wires. A voice trailed her escape, smothered by the crunch of gravel underfoot as she ran across the council car park and finally reached the road and her car. Head pounding, she rested one hand on the
bonnet of the car as she fumbled for the keys. It was all too much, Colin's accusations, her grandfather's words, the insinuations.

Anthony's hands touched the woollen shoulders of her jacket at the exact moment Sarah sensed him. Automatically she clutched the jacket to her body, wondering how much he heard, wishing her head felt clearer. Then she felt his fingers on her forehead, following the line of her cheekbone tenderly. Her breath tightened as he caressed her neck. His body was close, so close she could see the sparse blonde hairs at the base of his neck. Gently he lifted her chin upwards.

‘What did he say to you?'

The breath escaped briefly from her throat in relief. He'd not heard. ‘Nothing.' She waited for Anthony to speak as the moon, bright and unforgiving, highlighted his tired face, touching the fine lines, shadowing the strong bone structure.

‘I'm sorry I was late coming in tonight. We had a breakdown with the feed truck and –'

Anthony edged forward with incredible slowness, his breath touching her lips. She could smell alcohol. ‘We never planned anything.' She placed her hand lightly against the firmness of his chest, recalling her less than graceful exit from his embrace only yesterday. ‘We can't do this, Anthony.'

‘Do what?'

‘Jeremy.' Sarah said his name slowly.

‘He's not here.' Anthony kissed her gently on her lips.

She was confused and tired. She knew she should be backing away from Anthony, but the memory of their kiss yesterday overshadowed right and wrong. A light breeze rustled leaves as they twirled down the road as the rise and fall of music, laughter and shouts carried from the Town Hall.

‘I thought about you yesterday after you left.' He held her face between the palms of his hands. ‘I thought I'd scared you off.'

He kissed her once, softly and gently on her lips. His hand trailed inside her half-open jacket until his fingers rested against lace. He lifted her onto the bonnet of the car, his arm encircling her hips. The smell of him, the musky scent of his aftershave, the pressure of his body against hers sent Sarah's mind spinning. He traced the length of her spine before settling his hand on the small of her back. A distant sound of tearing came to her as he pulled her body towards him, her skirt riding to her thighs. Her skin tingled as his fingers grasped the nape of her neck and, finally, his mouth was on hers.