The Bark Cutters (42 page)

Stunned, Sarah found herself stammering hello. ‘You know my father?'

‘You didn't tell me he'd been over here as well,' Jim interrupted.

Mr Andrews cleared his throat. ‘Barely. Met him many years ago. We had dinner on a number of occasions. Swapped stories, that type of thing. You had a query, Sarah?'

‘Right, yes, well, I was wondering why Jim's dog was disqualified?'

‘Of course. The dog must be in clear view at all times. We can't possibly predict the weather, that's Scotland you know. Still, rules are rules. Is that not correct, lad?'

‘Mr Andrews is correct,' Jim answered curtly, before excusing himself.

‘I hope you enjoy your visit, Sarah. But don't waste your time in one place with this rough lot.' He studied her carefully, then with a slight bow, left her standing in a muddy puddle. As the whistle blew, she walked back to the old truck where Mrs Macken greeted her with a mug of coffee and a warm smile.

Abdullah closed the lid on his trunk. His lodging was now empty of all traces of his presence. The single bed, writing desk, chair and wardrobe suggested he'd not inhabited the room for the past three weeks. Only his letters remained on the cracked wooden desk, his suit jacket resting on the end of the lumpy narrow bed. Walking into the boarding house's hallway, Abdullah threw some coins at the young lad lounging against the timber walls. The boy, thin and ragged in appearance, took the money willingly enough, his thin lips twitching in response to the coin in his hand. With a heave, the boy carried the trunk down the stairs to the landing below.

His ship was due to depart on the night's tide and Abdullah was eager to be gone. He scanned the room, then, picking up the letters he'd written, called again to the youth below. The boy scrambled up the stairs and with letters and coin in hand, disappeared into the night. The first, penned to Hamish Gordon, reported favourable progress as to Claire Whittaker. Abdullah also
tactfully apologised for any misunderstandings while cautiously reminding Hamish of his desire to see Rose both happy and safe. If Hamish Gordon wished to take this inference as a veiled threat, well, Abdullah grinned, so be it.

As for the second letter, he could recall every sentence written, word for word.

As he turned to leave his room, the knife blade cut deeply into Abdullah's chest. For a moment he was unsure of where he was then his hand clutched at the bed cover as he fell, the worn brown material sliding down to partially obscure his fading vision. He felt his breath catch, heard a gurgling in his ears. Two men talked in muted tones and then his world spun into oblivion.

‘Tell Mr Reynolds the job's done.' The taller of the two wiped
the knife on his trousers. Leaning down he pulled Abdullah's gold fob watch and chain from the pocket of his waistcoat. He flipped the lid open, noting the fine engraving on the inside. ‘Give him this. It carries his name.'

Rose was not in the habit of searching her husband's mail. It was just that her Elizabeth had grown tardy in her correspondence. Regular monthly letters had remained the norm between them for the last two years. In fact her young daughter's increasingly maturing hand represented a lifeline to Rose. Elizabeth was now able to converse on subjects beyond schoolroom antics and was fond of describing a new dress, a scrap of lace, or her grandmother's reprimands. It was a life far removed from the obscure frontier Rose inhabited and she envied her daughter's life in Ridge Gully. It was with some dismay then that Elizabeth's letters began to grow less frequent. It was as if distance had rendered Rose redundant and she felt the ostracism keenly.

Forever dutiful, Colleen left the fortnightly mail on the hall table, ready to be distributed by Mrs Cudlow at dusk. It had become something of an event, this apportioning of correspondence, rather like last rites, Rose thought. So much anticipation was present at least on Rose's behalf, so the disappointment was
that much greater when no catalogue arrived from the department store in Sydney or Elizabeth did not reply immediately to her mother's missive.

Today Rose was in no mood to wait for Hamish's regulated mail hour. Her continuing disinterest in food had rendered her patience non-existent. She slunk from her room and sorted the mail efficiently. Statements of accounts and three-week-old newspapers comprised the bundle. There was no letter from Elizabeth. With a tight frown Rose was about to return to the sanctity of her bedroom when she noticed a cream envelope addressed to her. She snatched up the mysterious letter hurriedly, tearing it open to read the contents. Perhaps a former Ridge Gully matron was the author. Such letters arrived randomly and usually included a discreet snippet of scandal that once would have been delicately discussed over morning tea. A brief moment of unbridled exhilaration sped through Rose's bones when she realised the identity of the author.

‘We found her in the hallway, Mr Gordon.'

Mrs Cudlow followed him into Rose's bedroom.

His wife's face was a sheen of perspiration, yet the room was cool and dark, scented with the lavender water she so loved.

‘Rose, what ails you?' He sat carefully on her bed, careful not to disturb her. ‘Will you answer, please?' It occurred to him that he'd not been in this room except to visit a newborn or perform his husbandly duties. They'd never simply sat and talked of the day's events, or discussed their children or laughed at the shared follies of the past. They seemed to share no happy memories at all, at least not enough to blank out the bad ones.

Mrs Cudlow looked meaningfully at a folded piece of paper on the bedside table and left the room.

Rose coughed quietly in the darkness. ‘I know of the woman, of this Miss Whittaker. I take it our marriage is over.'

‘Claire. You know of Claire?' He reached for the letter, read it and frowned. He had never thought of the possibility of Rose discovering Claire's existence.

‘A pretty name. You wish her to be your wife.'

He should have known better than to give such a task to one outside his most trusted circle. ‘I have never met her and she knows not who I am,' he replied honestly.

‘That,' Rose said sharply, ‘is surely the most wicked of lies.'

Hamish tore Abdullah's letter in half and sat it back on the bedside table. ‘You're not really in a position to pass judgement, Rose. Goodnight.' He turned down the lamp so that only a dull circle of light remained and left her in the semi-darkness.

In the middle of the night, Rose awoke to the hurrying of footsteps and the slamming of doors. She reached lethargically for her shawl, fearing the worst, a fire perhaps or an attack from the Aboriginals. She must move, she told herself, willing her starving body to obey her command.

‘Mrs Gordon. Mrs Gordon?' A series of taps on the bedroom door followed the voice, then Mrs Cudlow flung the door open to Rose's bedroom.

‘What is it, Mrs Cudlow? It's the middle of the night.'

The nanny held a candle, the pale light drawing streaks of flickering shadows across her lined faced. ‘It's the children. They are ill.'

They had been climbing steadily, time passing quickly as Jim spoke of his great-grandfather who had disappeared on his last droving trip. Sarah listened intently, fascinated by both the history of his family and the lilting beauty of his Scottish accent. It was a voice at once deep and penetrating, yet with the highs and lows of the hills and lochs they passed.

‘No-one knew if he made it to the sales or not. I say he was killed on the road somewhere.'

‘That's dreadful,' Sarah exclaimed.

‘He was a crofter, Sarah Gordon, with no money and nothing to lose. Still, he allowed my father's family to remain on their land.' As he spoke, they passed a group of shaggy-haired Highland cattle. Deep red in colour, their appearance reminded Sarah of water buffalo.

‘My great-uncle Luke, my grandfather's half-brother, was a drover too. He died on the stock route doing what he loved. It would have been the same for your great-grandfather.'

‘I guess. Not far to go now.' Jim ran ahead, pulling her upwards. Sarah winced at the pain in her ribs as she pulled her hand free. The blackface sheep munching at the low covering of heather did not stir as she passed them. ‘Ugly-looking buggers,' Sarah commented.

‘Do you always say what ye think then?' he called after her.

‘Usually,' she admitted playfully, as he joined her. ‘What does your family grow?'

‘Oats and potatoes. We sell the excess to the market, and my mother has a fine vegetable garden.' The crinkles at his eyes smoothed as he spoke, the light beige of his freckles highlighted by the pale skin beneath and the thick weave of his olive green jumper. ‘Each year we're increasing the numbers of cattle and sheep for sale.' Jim's voice tapered off.

They had been climbing gradually for the last twenty minutes, yet their ascent was so unnoticeable that Sarah was surprised when the view below her stretched out spectacularly for miles.

‘This is amazing.' The sun warmed her back as she gazed across at the numerous lochs that crept out between small hills. It was as if they had climbed a thousand feet.

‘It's just the positioning of this rise. If it were a few feet either side, you would never be able to see all this.' He appeared to be talking to himself, as if he was not used to company.

Sarah counted the lochs under her breath. The last one, curling like the top end of a question mark, lay many miles away. At the sight of it her thoughts were drawn to a similar pattern, the scar etched on Anthony's cheekbone.

‘There's no mist this morning. I can see out to Shannon, number twelve. See how that shaft of sunlight dances on her?' He caressed each word as if talking to a lover. ‘I can remember seeing fourteen with my grandfather when I was very young. Never seen it since.'

Sarah sat cross-legged on the heather. It felt springy beneath her, like soft rubber coils.

‘Tell me how long your family's been in Australia, Sarah. Why did they leave Scotland?'

‘My great-grandfather, Hamish,' she began, ‘emigrated with his only brother in the 1850s. Charlie died in a mining accident soon after. Hamish blamed himself for the boy's death and spent his life trying to achieve his dream.'

‘What was the dream?' Jim asked. He was leaning back on the springy heath, his hands burrowing into the vegetation by his sides.

‘To become huge landowners. He did it too. He selected the family property, Wangallon, in the early 1860s, and we still live there.'

‘That's impressive, lass.'

Sarah began tugging at the vegetation in her hand, pulling green growth free of its soil.

‘You don't agree?'

‘There just seems to have been a lot of death associated with Wangallon's history.' Sarah gave a half-laugh, brushing her hands free of dirt. ‘Sorry. That sounds a bit morbid.'

‘Who died?' Genuinely intrigued, Jim moved forward, crossing his long legs in front of him into a semi-lotus position.

Sarah hesitated. It was such a nice day and here she was dredging up the past. ‘I guess you have to have a few deaths when there is a long history in one place.'

‘It sounds pretty terrible. Do all your family live on this place, Wangallon?' He pronounced the word with difficulty, his tongue twisting to sound out each vowel.

‘My parents sold out to my grandfather after a big flood some years ago.'

‘And you?' Jim asked. ‘You obviously live there.'

Sarah shook her head, getting to her feet. They began the long descent to the valley below.

‘Why don't you live there if you love it so much?'

‘You know you remind me of Cameron,' she replied, ignoring a question she couldn't answer.

‘Cameron?'

‘My brother. He died in a horse-riding accident years ago,' she said quietly. ‘Not a day goes by when I don't think of him.'

‘And I remind you of him? Then I can't be complaining if it's a good thought.'

He stopped and Sarah found herself looking into the deepness of his violet eyes. ‘It's because of your eyes – they're violet.'

‘Not uncommon up in these parts. No doubt there's been a bit of interbreeding over the centuries. That would be how you got your violet eyes.'

‘Yeah, right,' she laughed, pulling away from his intense gaze.

Jim shoved his hands deep into his trouser pockets. ‘Guess you'll be wanting a coffee or something now?'

‘You guessed right.' She walked on ahead, agilely missing rocks, sidestepping the uneven ground, surprised by the sulky expression curling the lips of the man she barely knew.

The fax from Anthony arrived in the late afternoon via the post office, then via the publican. Sarah took it delightedly, noting Anthony's scrawled signature at the bottom of the page. The letter explained that her grandfather was in Sydney for a regular check-up. Just in case she telephoned.

Heard about your accident and the break-up. Hope all okay.

Having read the last line Sarah folded the piece of paper carefully. For some reason Anthony knowing of her broken engagement made her feel awkward.

‘Problem?' Mrs Jamieson asked from the kitchen door. ‘I don't care to know about the other young man, lass. But your face lit up reading that, the way young Jim's does when he sees you.'

Tucking the note into the pocket of her jeans, Sarah shook her head, ‘Oh, Anthony's just a friend from home, Mrs Jamieson.'

‘And Jim?'

Sarah wanted to tell the woman to mind her own business. Instead, she said honestly, ‘He's just a friend too. Besides I've only known Jim four days.'

‘Four days is enough.' Mrs Jamieson nodded pointedly at the paper sticking out of Sarah's jeans pocket. ‘Hmm, have you thought about how you feel about that young man and the way Jim Macken feels about you? Hearts are difficult things to mend, lass. Don't use another's in the hope it will help yours.'

Sarah found herself blinking in reply. How did the receipt of a telegram lead to the discussion of her personal life with a woman she barely knew? Mrs Jamieson was glaring at her as if she expected an answer, her forehead creasing further as each second passed. When the telephone rang, interrupting the brief standoff, Sarah let out a burst of air subconsciously held in her throat.

Mrs Jamieson held the receiver abruptly towards her. ‘The operator's putting a call through to you now. And by the way, I expect some decorum in my house.'

Sarah accepted the telephone receiver feeling like a naughty child. She was at a loss as to what she had done to provoke Mrs Jamieson.

‘Sarah, how are you? Where are you?'

‘Hi, Dad. I'm fine. I'll be stuck here in Tongue for at least a few more days. Here's my number …' Sarah repeated the digits stiffly.

‘Tongue? Tell me, Sarah, is …' There was a questioning edge in his normally monotone voice.

‘What, Dad? Is everything okay?'

‘Fine, fine. Been there a couple of times myself.'

‘I know, well, I met a friend of yours. Well, an acquaintance really. Eliot Andrews.'

Sarah heard a gasp behind her only to find Mrs Jamieson rubbing the small dining table as if her life depended on the shine factor.

‘You still there? Anyway, I'm not sure I share your enthusiasm for the place, Dad. Still, most of the people here are friendly.' Sarah looked directly at Mrs Jamieson now shadowing the kitchen doorway.

‘When are you moving on?' her father asked. ‘There are a lot of interesting things to see in Scotland.'

‘I'm waiting for my replacement hire car,' answered Sarah.

Through the thick walls the wind whistled around the cottage.

‘You spoken to Jeremy yet?'

‘No, Dad, and I won't be. It's over.' Above the whine of the wind, Sarah picked up the rattle of Jim's old truck. ‘I'll call soon. Bye, Dad.' Sarah placed the receiver down softly.

Mrs Jamieson had gone.

Sarah agreed to dinner with Jim and his parents partly to escape another evening with Mrs Jamieson, although to be honest she was looking forward to seeing the Mackens – they were nice people. On approach their cottage was much like Mrs Jamieson's in appearance. It, too, was set into the side of a hill, with smoke curling from the chimney. But there, all similarities ended. The neat grass in front of the building flowed down a few hundred yards to a large loch, beyond which the flat land extended for almost a mile, until the start of a gradual incline of a hill. The house also faced east, but instead of crumbling fences and buildings, the Macken's cottage was in good order. As the truck pulled up, Sarah noted the stone wall running past the house, up the side of the hill.

‘I hope you like haggis,' Jim said, as they walked to the front door.

Sarah slowed her pace. ‘What?' The thought of stuffed sheep's stomach for dinner was not something she had reckoned on.

Jim grabbed her arm and pulled her forward. ‘With neeps and tatties.'

‘Neeps?' Sarah repeated, smiling weakly. It wasn't just the food. His excitement flowed through him like one of the hot-wires they used to keep out cattle that pushed through fences.

After a quick welcome, the four of them sat around a sturdy wooden table, eating soup. The room served as a kitchen, living and dining area. It was cosy, small and sparsely decorated, with only two round rugs, books and photographs on the mantlepiece relieving the whiteness of the walls and the darkness of the furniture.

‘We knocked the wall down when Jim was a young lad,' Mr Macken said between mouthfuls of barley soup.

‘We're all together. Just the three of us,' Mrs Macken added.

‘How is the haggis progressing, Mum?'

Sarah caught the look that passed between mother and son. There was an undercurrent she could not quite pick up on. Mrs Macken wiped her hands on her apron several times and, collecting the soup bowls, went to the large oven.

‘So, Sarah, Jim tells me your family were pioneers?'

‘Is that so?' Mr Macken interrupted. ‘Hmm, my family's been in this same cottage for about one hundred and fifty years. Not sure of the exact dates. No records, you know. It's been rebuilt, re-roofed, burnt out, you name it, but we're still here.' He sounded defensive. ‘We'll keep going for a bit longer. There are about eighteen thousand or so crofts, you know, lass, each averaging around four acres.'

‘Four acres!' Sarah's mouth dropped open.

‘When the English moved in, they cleared wooded areas for cultivation, moved clan members off land they owned, or rented out cottages to the same families that had lived there for
years. Everyone, well, near everyone is a tenant farmer, Sarah. Crofters.'

‘Sarah wouldn't understand,' Mrs Macken interrupted.

Jim gave Sarah a look that begged forgiveness. Sarah was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable. The friendly Mrs Macken of the dog trials seemed to have been replaced by a woman far less welcoming.

‘Tell us about Australia,' Jim finally asked, breaking the difficult silence.

‘Umm, a bad drought every ten years on average. The current one has been going for a couple of years.'