The Bark Cutters (49 page)

‘I need you,' she whispered to the sleeping form beside her. Having spent her life trying to hear a word never uttered to her by her mother; to replace the same word lost with the death of her brother, only now did Sarah realise that
love
was far too limiting a word for her world, for if Anthony was her love,
Wangallon represented her soul. Anthony turned towards her, his arms encircling her body, pulling her close to his heart.

An owl, its large eyes blinking studiously, glanced in the direction of the dimly lit room. Hours before daybreak, the frogmouth left the tall gum tree to soar above the homestead, its wings lengthening until realising their full span. The night air rushed. Ahead, a canopy of trees waited, their branches wrapping protectively about each other, their energy glowing aura-like in the blackness. The owl swooped, wings outstretched, gliding through the tightly packed leaves that wept the scent of eucalyptus. It landed lightly, its anxious head swivelling slowly from left to right, its claws grappling the crumbling headstone of Hamish Gordon. Finally, as light rain began to fall and the earth opened its throat to quench a long thirst, the owl slept, contented.

Hamish Gordon lay in his hammock on the verandah, one leg slung over the side with his foot touching the timber floorboards beneath. He pushed himself occasionally, the gentle rise and fall giving glimpses of blue sky and green lawn, between which masses of deep pink flowers from the bougainvillea hedge enclosing the garden assaulted his afternoon tranquillity. Towards the rear of the garden, Claire's stringy barks grew tall amongst native leopardwood and wilga trees, while the lawn, the scene of many weekend luncheons and summer strolls, was lush and green. It took some imagining for him to recall the sparse wooden perimeter that contained Wangallon's excuse for a garden in the 1860s. Nor would one recognise the homestead now, for under his direction the home had been enlarged and redecorated to its current splendid form of plaster ceilings, rambling verandahs, chandelier-lit living areas and fine brocade soft furnishings.

It was a fine spring day, the type of day that had rushed past him during his life and that he had never managed to enjoy.
Today, however, was different. It was his birthday, or he believed it was. No matter as long as he had one every year and 1905 was as good as any time to be alive.

‘Hell, a day out, a few months? Who cares?'

‘I care, my darling.'

Claire Whittaker Gordon strolled along the verandah with regal elegance. From a tray of iced tea, she poured a tall glass for her husband before settling herself in a large wicker chair, white muslin flowing about her. Around her throat she wore a fine strand of pearls and on her wrist a beaten gold bangle, a trinket she had found only this morning.

‘You have been keeping things from me, my dear.' Claire held up her wrist, displaying the bangle.

Hamish stared at her, a number of concocted stories coming to mind. Instead he said, ‘It was Rose's. Where did you find it?'

‘In an old trunk in the school room along with some of her personal effects. The room has been used for storage for so long that I decided it was time to start going through it in preparation for Angus. There are masses of school books. I thought as they are so old and with Angus requiring new readers I would tidy things a little.'

Hamish drew his eyes away from the bangle. ‘A good idea and I'm sorry. I had no idea there were any of Rose's personal effects left in the house. I did ask Mrs Cudlow to dispose of them after her death.'

‘Well, if you wish to be rid of them I will ask one of the maids to tidy things up.'

‘Yes, good.' The near forty years since Rose's passing disintegrated and her face came to him as clear as if she stood before him.

‘Hamish, my dear, are you feeling unwell?'

‘Not at all, merely … remembering.' For years after Rose's death he had suffered the most appalling dreams. It was as if
she visited him nightly, for often the dreams were accompanied by footsteps outside his room and he would jump from his bed, lamp in hand only to find the hallway empty. It still staggered him that a woman, his own wife, could actually will herself to die. He had heard of such occurrences, of widowed women pining away, however his own wife, and all for the love of an Afghan? He looked again at the bracelet. ‘Do you like it?'

Claire studied the bracelet. It was very pretty and a quick polish had revealed a wonderful golden gold, but did she like it? Just then she experienced the strangest of sensations.

‘Not really.' She slid the bangle from her wrist and handed it to Hamish. He took it wordlessly. He would place it in his study for safekeeping, next to Abdullah Abishari's fob watch and chain. Perhaps, he mused, that would make Rose happy.

‘Lee has taken control of the kitchen. I'm sure Cook is not impressed.' Hamish sipped the refreshing liquid, patting his immaculate moustache dry with a fine embroidered handkerchief.

‘Well, I told him, my dear, that Cook was to do the dessert, which seemed like a perfectly fine compromise, until Cook disappeared and Lee discovered that Luke's latest raid had not only included raisins, but the cocoa powder as well.'

‘I like constancy in my life,' Hamish grimaced, his moustache turning downwards.

Luke appeared from around the corner of the house, a dirty screaming bundle of rags under his arm. ‘Now come on, Auntie Claire, I accept some blame, but not all.'

Nearing forty-five, Luke prided himself on his six foot height and enjoyed the sniggers of those who whispered that he acted as if he owned the world. Frankly, he reckoned if they ever got a gander at how things worked at Wangallon they would have a mighty different opinion.

‘Your youngest I believe, Father,' he announced, holding his five-year-old half-brother Angus upside down by the ankle. ‘He
makes a terrible noise.' Luke twisted the boy around until he was upright, then plonked him feet first onto the verandah. Quick as a flash he felt a small kick in his shin. Luke grabbed the boy by his already torn shirt-collar, holding him still for parental inspection.

‘Good heavens, Angus,' Claire gasped. ‘What have you done to your face?'

Smiling sweetly, Angus lifted a filthy finger, licked it generously and then wiped it across his cheek before licking it again as if it were a boiled sweet.

‘Cocoa powder,' Luke revealed.

‘And the scratches?' Hamish bellowed, swinging both legs over his hammock to stare at his youngest.

‘Well …' Angus hesitated, his small voice quavering.

Filling his pipe, Hamish glanced up at his son. ‘You are a boy, are you not?'

‘Yes, yes, Father,' he stammered.

‘Well, then, speak up,' Hamish demanded between puffs of his pipe.

Angus thought quickly, his young mind searching for the right reply. ‘I took the cocoa, but only because Luke did.' He shot a glance at his brother, his confidence rising. Luke hunched his shoulders in response. ‘Then Cook chased me and followed me up the tree, but I had her cat …'

‘Tied up,' Luke added.

‘… and Cook scrambled along the branch and it broke,' Angus stated flatly, his eyes wide with indignation at his special place being intruded upon.

Trying not to laugh, Hamish leaned closer to his young boy. ‘And?'

‘We both fell,' Angus finished proudly.

‘Oh dear!' Claire exclaimed. ‘What about Cook?'

‘Young Angus here,' Luke said, displaying a full set of tea-brown teeth, ‘landed on Cook who is, as we speak, packing her bags.'

‘Oh, Hamish,' Claire cried out, ‘you must do something. Please?'

‘What of the cat?' Hamish asked.

Angus clapped his mouth tightly shut. The cat was his hostage.

‘Well …' Hamish rubbed his chin. ‘Luke, fetch Cook's cat, and tell her that if she leaves, we'll eat it for dinner.'

‘Hamish!' Claire smiled at her husband in reproach.

‘Just tell her that. On the other hand, Lee used to make a pretty good cat stew back in Ridge Gully days,' he joked.

‘Hamish,' Claire chided again, lifting a fine lace and bone fan to waft a gentle breeze about her face.

‘Now, Angus, how important is it to be friends with the people who work for you?'

Angus dropped his head to stare at his bare feet. A burr stuck out from the side of his big toe, but it didn't hurt. He was used to running round and getting burrs. However, now that he knew it was there …

‘Angus?'

His father's voice jolted him back to reality. ‘Yes,' he answered in a quiet voice. It wasn't very good to be in trouble with his father. The last time his father had questioned him, he had received a sound whipping with an old riding crop. All he had done was smear honey on Lee's toes when the Chinese was asleep. The ants had come all by themselves.

‘Lee, Lee, come out here, will you?' Hamish yelled impatiently.

‘Yes, you want me?' Immediately Lee appeared from behind the house, shuffling down the verandah towards his boss.

‘That was fast,' Hamish commented with a soft chuckle. His old friend was as wiry as ever, bow-legged and still voracious in his consumption of tobacco.

Lee bowed quickly. ‘Cook going?' He rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

Hamish rolled his eyes.

‘Come on, Lee.' Luke patted the Chinaman on the shoulder. ‘Let's take Angus and see if we can find Cook's cat.'

‘Cat very tasty,' Lee grinned, his near toothless smile widening as he followed Luke and Angus inside the house.

Hamish lay back in the hammock, his spine nestling comfortably in the soft canvas. With one foot on the floor he pushed gently so that a soft rocking motion lulled him into drowsiness. Feet away Claire wafted her fan, her eyes sleepy in the mid-afternoon heat. Wavy tendrils of her black hair moved slowly, twisting becomingly in the manufactured wind.

When Wilkinson & Cross first advised Hamish of Claire's determination to meet with her benefactor he had refused. It was true that in the aftermath of Rose's death he had thought of the young woman in his care, however he was used to controlling his own affairs and was somewhat put out by Claire Whittaker's resolve. However, the girl did not lack fortitude and he found himself amused by her insistence to travel north. It seemed she refused to be left at the whim of her benefactor and the possibility of being married off to a man not of her choosing.

After years of daydreaming and the gradual realisation that he wanted more of Claire than to purely care for her from a distance, her imminent arrival caused him some consternation; a rather unknown emotional state to him. What to expect was his main query. He certainly did not want to meet her and discover her to be like Mary, his first love. Nor find another replica of Rose. It was possible, Hamish knew, that he was simply not suited to women. And assisting and following Claire Whittaker's progress offered him contentment without angst. What he had not counted on was Claire.

Within a day of arriving at Wangallon for what was stipulated as a short visit, Claire, showing much tenacity, managed to tune the piano. Within two days she was out riding side saddle with him on one of his morning inspections and by month's end even Mrs Cudlow was grinning like a Cheshire cat. Hamish ordered her Sydney tutor to make the long journey north and at the end of three months, Claire and young Luke were comparing lessons and arguing over geography. Hamish could not have been more pleased. When they eventually kissed six months later Hamish felt as if he were finally home.

Claire still managed to delight him with her soft authority and great love for both him and the land that was theirs. Only last year, on a visit to Government House, his beloved wife had outshone them all in an off-the-shoulder gown of palest blue satin, complemented by long white court gloves giving only the most tantalising glimpse of flesh between glove and gown. She had carried an ostrich feather fan with an exquisitely carved ivory handle and worn an osprey feather entwined with fine seed pearls in her hair.

‘Imperative, my darling, for these court presentations. You know that, my dear,' Claire whispered in reply to his compliments.

Then later, when many of the guests were long gone, they retired to the drawing room and, amidst champagne and the company of the titled, Claire played a little Chopin for the entertainment of the assembled guests.

‘Just a trifle,' Claire announced to the admiring applause.

‘Just a trifle,' Hamish repeated out loud, a contented smile curving his lips. Some assets, he had discovered, did not have to produce an income. Although they could ensure continuity, for Claire produced young Angus. Here was a boy made to inherit, to learn from both him and the still reckless Luke. Luke would not marry, he was not the kind. Hamish understood that. Wild and a loner, he spent his days as a boundary rider on Wangallon
or droving their stock out on the great inland routes when the seasons turned against them. He had not been the same since the death of his brothers and mother some thirty years ago and, in truth, Hamish couldn't blame the lad for not fulfilling on the promise of ability so evident from an early age. Hamish scratched his chest. A lifetime ago that time seemed to him now.

The hurdles in his way had been numerous. Ridge Gully, the epic wool clip lost en route to England. That was a major loss. Hamish had banked everything on that clip and he nearly lost the property the following year when he found it difficult to repay the huge advance he had obtained. Yet he had managed it. There were yellowing pages in an old station ledger reflecting a large number of sheep being sold and then the miraculous return to normal stock numbers barely twelve months later. Old habits were hard to break, particularly when he and his men were so adept at moonlighting.

Then there was the tragic deaths of his boys, the contempt Abdullah Abishari showed towards Hamish's hospitality and Rose's tragic yet unstoppable demise. Yet it all slid into obscurity when compared with the death of his brother on the goldfields.

Still it had been worth it. Angus represented Wangallon's future and although Hamish's patience was strained after two stillbirths and a number of miscarriages, eventually young Angus presented himself. He firmly believed that a boy would come eventually to inherit and one did. As for daughters, there was only Elizabeth Sutton Russell. Matthew Reynolds' old house in Ridge Gully was hers, as was The General Store managed by her grandmother, Lorna. Town property was his daughter's gift, not the land, not the black soil encasing the Gordon lineage now and into the future. He had assured himself of a strong succession plan, and the girl had carried the surname of Sutton since Rose's death.