The Bark Cutters (50 page)

Sometimes if Hamish closed his eyes tightly, his imagination whisked him back in time to a life before the arrival of his
beloved Claire. Dave and Jasperson crunching the dry dirt as they came to speak with him after dinner, his dead sons playing, Mrs Cudlow running breathlessly after Luke, the musty scent of Milly, the broken piano and the wallpaper of yellow roses. Most of all he remembered Charlie. He hoped his dead brother would be proud.

Angus watched the figures assembled at the back gate to Wangallon homestead through the small square of the ambulance window, the faces of his family blurred by a light rain. He knew his return home was not expected, in fact at one stage even he doubted his mental ability to pull himself free of the abyss into which his injuries had flung him. Accepting the arm of an ambulance officer, Angus waited for the wheelchair to be unfolded, his eyes skimming his surroundings as he sucked in the fresh clean air of his land. The chair travelled roughly over uneven ground thick with shooting grasses. He raised a hand to halt their progression, noting the herbage coming through the grass, the small shoots of clover beginning to form indicative, finally, of the chance of a decent season coming their way. If only they could be fortunate enough to get another couple of inches of rain.

‘All surprised I can see,' he challenged as he rose, cursing silently at his less than steady stance. ‘I had a spritely nurse
attending to my rehabilitation so, as you can bloody well see, I'm not defunct yet.'

‘Good to have you back, Dad.'

‘Good to see you, Angus.'

‘Hi, Grandfather.'

‘That's better.' Accepting the handshakes and kisses with grudging reluctance – demonstrative examples of affection were never his style – he quickly gauged his family's wellbeing. Ronald looked tanned and fit and his broad smile that oozed relief proved that the rumours were indeed true: finally Sue was in a hospice. As for the flushed, soft look on his willowy granddaughter, well, Angus decided, he was starting to feel a whole lot better. ‘Now I promised these two fine paramedics hot coffee and cake. Can we oblige them?'

‘Absolutely,' Sarah beamed. ‘I'll lead the way.'

Resuming his seat in the wheelchair, Angus meandered slowly up the back path behind his family. Two long months were behind him since the accident; weeks of pain and frustration. Weeks of forcing himself to eat when his body near damn well decided to pack it in, but he wasn't having any of that. The bastards could put their binoculars down if they expected a dismal curtain call behind a hospital screen. Nope, he would die when he was damn well good and ready, his way, at Wangallon.

‘Well,' Angus nodded approvingly to where Anthony and Sarah waited at the back door. He noted Anthony's hand resting on his granddaughter's shoulder, ‘I see you two have got your act together at last and you've even managed to make it rain.'

In response heavy droplets splashed on the corrugated iron roof. A contemplative haze of heat and moisture rose up from the cement path, signalling the beginnings of a heavy shower.

‘There'll be a bloody flood next,' Angus stated.

Anthony thought of the open plains of Wangallon, of the fresh new herbage of the season and of the creeks and rivers still
dust dry with thirst. ‘I hope so. Just a small run-through will do.' Outside the homestead young joeys munched by their mothers' sides, ducklings called for food and a couple of young cattle pups growled with delight as they chased each other's tails in ever-decreasing circles up the back path. ‘And here it comes.' Out to the west the welcome sight of darkening thunder clouds bursting with more rain, answered.

‘Those pups belong to anyone?'

‘They are Shrapnel's, Angus,' Anthony told him. ‘Out of Pete's bitch, Molly. They should be good.' Scooping up the plump young animals, Anthony plonked both of them in Angus' lap. ‘Pick one.'

‘Old Shrapnel, eh. Well, Bullet,' Angus named the fattest of the two pups mauling his shirt, ‘you have got a fair bit to live up to. Where is my old mate anyway?'

‘He's buried in the cemetery, Grandfather,' Sarah answered.

‘Good. Put me next to him when the time comes.' Picking the young pups up by the scruff of their necks, Angus dropped them both on the ground. ‘They tell me, Sarah, that your work's been chosen for a photographic exhibition in Sydney.'

Sarah beamed. ‘I know, it's just so exciting. It's a photo of the Wangallon Creek and it will be hanging in the Art Gallery. Can you believe it?'

‘Yes, actually I can. Now about that coffee?'

Then he was being lifted up and into Wangallon homestead, to be wheeled to his place at the kitchen table. Finally, he was home.

Seated at the dining table under the piercing gaze of Hamish Gordon and the more reflective portrait of his wife Claire, Sarah, Anthony and Ronald waited as Angus sorted through the bundle of papers before him. Angus had wasted little time in
re-establishing himself as boss of Wangallon although in the last couple of weeks since his return from hospital he'd graciously deferred to both Anthony and Ronald on two separate occasions, an occurrence not unnoticed by Sarah, who sensed a general winding down in her grandfather, both physically and mentally. He was tuning out, she realised with dismay, or perhaps at long last he was acknowledging the need to defer to others. All the more reason for Jim's presence to be made known immediately, she decided. Sarah looked directly at Anthony. They had spent last evening discussing when Jim's existence should be revealed. It wasn't exactly something that could be manoeuvred around lightly. Her father didn't know that Sarah knew about Jim, while her grandfather didn't know anything at all. With a deep breath and a nod of support from Anthony, Sarah opened her mouth to speak. She figured the only way to get Jim out in the open was to simply blurt it out.

‘The last will and testament of Angus Gordon,' Angus read precisely, pausing to peer above his tortoiseshell reading glasses.

‘Hey, Dad,' Ronald interrupted. ‘This is a bit unusual, isn't it?'

‘Well, why should I leave this to the bloody solicitor? He'll get his cut when the time comes and you'll all have to sit through this again anyway. But this is my will, nobody else's, and it's mine to damn well read out when I choose. Besides, I don't believe in surprises, not where Wangallon's involved. I'd rather everyone knew where they stood.'

‘But, Grandfather,' Sarah interrupted, ‘there's something you should know. Something Dad needs to know too. Something really important,' she emphasised, looking at Anthony for support.

‘Yes, you should hear her out, sir, it may make a difference to all this.'

‘I doubt it. You see, when I was in hospital I had a very enlightening conversation with a certain Scottish resident by the name of Mrs Catherine Jamieson.'

‘What?' Sarah and her father asked in unison.

‘Oh, this is interesting,' Angus chuckled, removing his reading glasses to twirl one arm of them between thumb and forefinger. ‘I reckoned on you confronting your father about this, Sarah, but I see you've kept quiet about it.'

‘Well I …'

‘You know about Catherine Jamieson?' Ronald asked quietly.

‘And Maggie Macken and your time in Tongue.' Angus cocked an eyebrow. ‘Been busy in the past, haven't we?'

Sarah reached across the table to clasp her father's hand. ‘I know about my half-brother, Jim.'

Ronald turned from puce to grey.

‘Dad, it's okay, really.'

‘Yes, well we've more half-brothers in this family than most,' Angus stated with a trademark scowl. He didn't need the proceedings to get all teary.

‘You've met him?' Ronald looked ill.

‘Of course.' Sarah squeezed her father's hand.

Angus cleared his throat. ‘Back to business. I've a substantial parcel of shares and an amount of cash, this will be left jointly to you, Sarah and your father. Now for the best bit,' he said with a lightness belying the seriousness of the letter he was about to read aloud. ‘Obviously I've had to add one of those codicil things but it's all legal. Not a loophole anywhere.'

‘Nice tone to the beginning, don't you think?'

‘I'm pleased to see that you two have finally come to your senses in this regard. I would have haunted you for the rest of your life, Sarah, if you had fucked up your inheritance.'

‘So,' Angus looked up from the document at the expressionless faces at the table, ‘no quibbles there I would imagine. Well, I bet you're all asking who gets the other thirty per cent? Blood's thicker than water. Grievances and country gossip aside, there are some things that have to be done. I can only say I was saddened, Ronald, that you chose not to tell me about my grandson in Scotland. On the other hand, ever since Sue appeared on the scene, followed quickly by her affair, I placed the blame squarely on your shoulders for messing with Wangallon's future. So, in fairness to you, I suppose you reckoned I'd just see Jim as another problem caused by you. Well, you are wrong. I couldn't be prouder. It is to him I leave the other thirty per cent if he wants it.'

‘What?' Sarah and Anthony said in unison.

‘He's a Gordon by birthright and more Scottish than us. So, if you lot can't convince him to stay, well, you'll be working pretty damn hard to buy him out. He's the only one who has that option, mind. That's it.'

Ronald looked tentatively across at his daughter, then at his father. Jim was released from where he'd kept him in his heart. The rush of gratitude and relief caused his eyes to moisten.

‘I'll leave you three to discuss things then.' Angus rose from the table, his knuckles whitening with the strain of heaving himself up and out of his chair.

‘Thank you.' Anthony shook hands with Angus, conscious of the weight of responsibility passing to him as Angus placed a strong grip on his shoulder. ‘I won't let you down.'

‘I know that, lad, I know. Look after them for me,' he nodded towards Ronald and Sarah. ‘And most of all …'

‘I'll protect her, Angus.'

‘She's a hard mistress. She'll test you until your back is broken and the banks are breathing down your neck. But if you tend her cautiously, conservatively, she'll reward you in the end. Now I'll see you two,' he smiled softly, ‘later.'

‘Thanks, Grandfather,' Sarah called out as he left the room.

Anthony laid a hand on Sarah's shoulder. ‘I'll leave you two alone.'

‘Good idea,' Ronald agreed.

‘Bad idea,' Sarah disagreed. ‘Sit down, Anthony. If we're all going to be running this place together,' she smiled at both Anthony and her father, ‘then it's about time we were all honest with each other,' Sarah said, her eyes softening as Anthony sat beside her, taking her hand in his. ‘I've met Jim. He is a fine man.'

‘Does he know who you are?'

‘Not yet, Dad, but he will. When the timing's right.'

Anthony interrupted them. ‘Would he be interested in Wangallon?'

‘Maybe. He does like the land,' Sarah offered. ‘He's from the North Country and it's pretty ordinary up there, what with their small holdings.'

Ronald scratched his thinning head. ‘One day Jim will have to be told of his share in Wangallon.'

Sarah opened her eyes wide. ‘Firstly, Dad, don't you think he should meet his real father?'

‘For this Jim bloke to become a part of Wangallon, we have to lose Angus,' Anthony interrupted. ‘I'd only say, let's not have too much change too quickly.' He felt a little uncomfortable being present at such an emotional father–daughter discussion.

‘Agreed,' Ronald replied quickly. Besides, no-one knew what Jim wanted, least of all if he wanted a new family. But he figured he would probably want his share, in one form or another.

‘Dad, it's time for you to let go of Mum and come home. Help us, Dad. Help us run Wangallon like Grandfather wants you to.'

Ronald stared at the flat of his palms on the surface of the old table. The deep grain felt cool, welcoming to his skin. His grandparents had eaten here, raised their children. He himself, under the watchful tutelage of his mother, learned to read and write here. There was a patch of ink unable to be removed to prove it, as well as a deep scratch from his pocket knife when boredom and rebellion had set in. He ran his fingers across the wood.