The Bark Cutters (8 page)

Ridge Gully bustled with wagons and drays. The main street, wide and hot, held one tall coolibah tree, beneath which children loitered to play knuckles and argue over precious boiled lollies. Hamish rode sedately down the main street, freshly attired in waistcoat, suit and repaired, polished boots. The clothing, fashioned after an ageing catalogue sketch, required some making, delaying their arrival substantially, yet it ensured his arrival would not go unnoticed, a fact confirmed by the stares of the townsfolk intrigued by his appearance and that of the Chinaman walking two paces behind. Hamish
quickly noted that Tootles' information was not a recent report. A second general store stood next to a bank, and further on was a new building that was soon to be the District Lands Department. Dave and Jasperson tied their horses opposite Matthew Reynolds' hotel and set about locating the whereabouts of a certain English squatter, a Sir Malcolm Wiley, to whom they were to present themselves as reliable boundary riders from Victoria. Their letter of introduction, penned with great deliberation by Hamish, was constructed with the assistance of a year-old newspaper from Tootles' store.

Hamish found lodgings in a small guesthouse owned by one Lorna Sutton, and secured a laundry room out the back for Lee.

‘She is bringing daughter home.'

‘Eavesdropping are we, Lee?'

‘You,' Lee chuckled, ‘very wealthy. Buy up all the land. You are a very good catch.'

Hamish inspected the mouldy dampness of Lee's one room located at the far end of the small house block and the outside copper for the boiling of clothes. He decided being wealthy would be a very good thing.

‘You be all right here, Lee?'

‘Landlady busy.' Lee thrust his hips backwards and forwards, his pigtails flapping over his shoulders in tandem with his stilted movements. ‘Missus very busy.'

Hamish couldn't help but chuckle at Lee's animated actions. ‘I don't think so, Lee. Mrs Sutton seems like a respectable gentlewoman to me.'

‘Ah, Mister Hamish,' Lee shook his head, ‘are you an expert now?'

‘Expert enough to know that Lorna Sutton makes her money from taking in borders.'

Hamish grasped the brass knocker outside Matthew Reynolds' residence and knocked twice. A surly pimple-faced girl greeted him in starched apron and cap and led him into the parlour in which a small fire barely fought the chill. The wood-panelled room, with heavy burgundy velvet curtains and matching covered armchairs, carried the stale odour of food, and Hamish scrunched his nose at the ancient aromas stalking the room. Apart from the dining table, chairs and a number of portraits, the subjects of which were definitely not relatives given Tootles' account of the family history, the room was remarkably bare.

‘Ah, Mr Gordon, welcome to Ridge Gully. A toast to your arrival.'

Hamish accepted the small dram of rum and sat down, realising instantly that he was indeed in the company of a thief. Tootles, only too eager to help dislodge his bloated half-brother, had happily revealed over a meal at the Hill Hotel and Board the source of Matthew's wealth: stock theft – although such an accusation remained relegated to whispered asides, for the man was yet to be caught. Matthew Reynolds was dressed in a stylish dark suit with scarlet waistcoat. A thick watch-chain hung from his pocket and on more than one occasion, he removed the watch from his pocket and polished it absently on his sleeve. For all the spotlessness of the man's attire, his nails were filthy and he lounged sideways in his chair as if lying in his swag.

Hamish sipped at his glass of rum. Not used to the power of such liquor, he was cautious of losing his faculties although he found himself enjoying the drink all the same. His host carried Tootles' anxious air about him, but his was the demeanour of a bully built more for a street fight than for storekeeping and, unlike Tootles he couldn't hold Hamish's gaze, continually shifting his eyes about the room.

‘The old days have gone, Mr Gordon. The common people aren't prepared to take the slops anymore. Tis hard enough to
get decent staff these days and if you do, sooner or later you find them rooting about. Then they're with child. Well, I hear you have a loyal man. Hang on to him's my advice, indeed, hang on.'

‘Indeed.' Hamish lifted his glass and instantly it was refilled. It appeared he was to be the recipient of a lesson in servitude.

‘Thing is, it's hard for the likes of us, Mr Gordon. My ancestors,' Matthew gestured towards the portraits and then genuflected, ‘may they rest in peace, never haggled with the common people. Now it's daily.'

‘And land?' Hamish queried, eager to divert the subject to an area he understood.

‘Yes, well, that's just the thing. The squatters have it all and you being a buying man, like myself, will know the difficulties acquiring it.'

Hamish leaned forward in the well padded chair. ‘So what do you suggest?'

Carefully spitting into his palm, Matthew patted his thinning hair flat. Rarely did the opportunity present itself to entertain the likes of polite society. ‘There is talk, they tell me, of the Government freeing up the land. It can't last, they say. Every year more arrive in our ports, and you cannot have the squatters owning all of it.' Matthew gulped at his rum, his Adam's apple bobbing impressively.

‘No, it can't last.'

‘So I agree with the agitators; unlock the land, I say. Damn the squatters and their arguments over the destruction of the country. Bugger them all, I say. Give everybody some dirt.'

‘Aye, but with land you need stock,' Hamish countered cautiously.

‘Exactly, Mr Gordon.' Matthew jumped up from his seat, his jowls quivering with both the movement and anticipation. ‘Food!' he bellowed through the dining room door, before removing a yellow-stained handkerchief to mop his brow and slumping back
in his chair. ‘And if, for example you were looking for some, I, myself, could be of assistance there.'

‘Good stock.' Hamish set his glass down on the small leather topped table. ‘I know the price of stock, Mr Reynolds, but as a successful man, perhaps you could provide me with cheap, good stock, if you get my meaning.'

‘Absolutely, Mr Gordon, absolutely,' Matthew beamed. ‘Now please, do me the honour of taking a little dinner with me.'

The meal consisted of boiled mutton and potatoes, a delight in itself though there were oranges for dessert, the likes of which Hamish had never tasted. He found himself eating heartily and in spite of himself returned his host's fat-glazed smile as their meal came to an end. The visit alone was worth it for the food, Hamish decided as the hours stretched and his host regaled him with stories and snippets worth storing. It seemed Matthew Reynolds heard a great deal of news from his whore, who worked at Sir Malcolm Wiley's and waited on him at bed and table alike. The squatters spent their days arguing with the politicians over the proposed changes to land ownership, and there was no doubt in Sir Malcolm's mind that a war would ensue. Only last week, ‘Unlock the land' flyers had been nailed up outside the soon-to-be-opened Lands Department.

‘Buying and selling is the future,' Matthew emphasised, his podgy hands battling with the rubbery skin of his third orange. ‘Here, you're probably a little better in the wrist department than me.' Reynolds' handed Hamish one of the small silver knives resting with the platter of oranges.

Hamish ran his finger along the small blade, admiring the smooth white stone of the handle.

‘Mother of pearl they call it. Anyway, buy land now, sell later. A man's future can be made on that. And stock?' Leaning heavily on his fine oak table, Matthew banged his fist hard on the surface. ‘Borrow it, carefully, is my advice.'

Hamish choked on the citrus flesh mangled decisively in the back of his throat. Surely Reynolds' had not just admitted to theft.

Reynolds' nodded knowingly. ‘I know, I myself never had similar inclinations, being a gentleman and all, but mark this well, Mr Gordon, this is a new country with new rules. How do you, Mr Gordon, society man that you are, reckon the squatters obtained these vast landholdings in the first place? It was a matter of timing. They arrived first and, with their airs and graces, ingratiated themselves, and now they have it all – land and stock.'

Hamish swallowed the last of his orange and pocketed the fruit knife.

A few weeks later Dave and Jasperson used the light of the full moon to travel from Sir Malcolm Wiley's holding back to Ridge Gully. It was a clear night, one ripe with anticipation for Hamish. His need for further information was vital if his plan had any chance of coming to fruition. The three men stood out the back of Lorna's guesthouse, near the beginnings of Lee's vegetable garden, their faces illuminated by the moon.

‘Well?' Hamish asked, barely giving the two men time to acknowledge him.

‘Well, we're boundary riders now at the Englishman's run,' Jasperson began. ‘It's a poor excuse for a property although only Sir Malcolm Wiley himself can be blamed, for he is rarely home.'

‘He'd be bleeding money,' Dave revealed, pleased at last to be spending each night under a roof, even if it was a bark humpy with five other men snoring and farting beside him. ‘It did not take long to learn the scheme of things.' Dave leant closer, dropped his voice lower. ‘Stock theft, all the boundary riders are in it. Each receives a cut and they keep quiet about it.'

‘All of them?' Hamish asked somewhat amazed at the extent of such unlawful activities.

Jasperson scowled at Dave. ‘The northern and western boundaries only, Hamish. There are ten men involved; twice a year, after lambing.'

‘Reynolds?'

‘Aye, I'd reckon he'd be the mastermind,' Dave confirmed. ‘No-one much else is mentioned.'

‘And Sir Malcolm knows nothing?' Hamish asked.

Jasperson sneered. ‘Bloody toff's too busy in Sydney. Reckon he's going to lose his place to the shit of the world, so Reynolds' whore says.'

‘Reynolds' whore is also Sir Malcolm's whore. If she be yours, too, Jasperson, you'd do well to find another at the end of this business,' Hamish advised. ‘Whoring women who play for both sides are likely to be thinking of an advantage to be had.'

Jasperson grunted, scratching his crotch irritably. ‘He's repairing all the old log fences. I heard he's even gonna divide the place up into smaller paddocks.'

Hamish nodded, ‘Less men needed that way. The stock are more secure and it's only the outside boundaries that need watching.'

‘So, Reynolds is gonna do one more lift in two months' time. Five thousand head to be driven up north to Queensland.' Jasperson snorted down the mucus stuck in his throat. ‘Reckon he'll clear out then. The troopers have had their eye on 'im.'

‘Aye, I reckon he will,' Hamish agreed. ‘Jasperson, ride to The Hill and tell Tootles I have a business proposition.'

Dave grimaced, the corners of his mouth drooping. ‘Why would the likes of him come here for us?'

Hamish's eyebrows lifted in amusement. ‘Money.'

‘If you would stop procrastinating over the cost of the upgrade, you wouldn't be in this predicament.' With a deep sigh Angus looked from Ronald and beckoned to Anthony, who appeared around the side of the woolshed in the Toyota, towing a trailer with a generator on board. It was the last day of shearing and the main electrical board had blown, cutting the power to Wangallon homestead, the shearer's quarters, three station-hand residences, the cook house, cottage and the shearing shed itself. Angus scratched his head irritably, aware of the smirks and just audible comments coming from where twenty-six shearers and assorted rouseabouts, board boys and shed hands waited inside the shed. The men were beginning to grumble about the possibility of having to work late on a Friday to get the job finished.

‘What happened?' Sarah asked her brother when he appeared from the far side of the sheep yards on his motorbike.

‘There's no power at the cook house to boil water for the men's tea. Clayton really has the shits about it because he had a cake
in the oven as well.' Cameron got off his bike, put the stand down, and continued. ‘The board blew. Grandfather told Dad to upgrade the board last year. Dad ignored the suggestion, reckoning on another twelve months out of the old girl. The ten grand allocated for the upgrade went toward purchasing panels so we could enlarge the cattle yards. Other than that, well, they're arguing about it. Nothing new there.'

They watched as Anthony reversed the trailer to the door of the shed, both their father and grandfather standing angrily to one side as a shed hand unrolled a power cord and tried to plug it into the generator; the lead was a good foot too short.

‘Better give Ant a hand,' Cameron said aloud, walking over to where Anthony was reversing the trailer again in order to get closer to the shed. At the angle Anthony was forced to reverse, the trailer was partially jack-knifed.

‘Dad, Clayton's mad about the power,' Sarah said meekly as she approached her grandfather and father. Both men were frowning, the deep furrows between their eyes reminiscent of angry twins.

‘I'll go see him once we're up and running. Unhook her when you're set up, Anthony.' Ronald walked towards the Toyota. ‘I'll have to go and calm Clayton.'

‘Righto.'

‘Watch out that doesn't spring back on you, mate,' Cameron yelled out as Anthony undid the tow-hitch. A second later Anthony was lying flat on his back, the trailer having sprung to one side once it had been disconnected from the Toyota.

‘Shit.' Cameron was by Anthony's side in a second. ‘Anything busted?'

‘No, nothing.' Anthony rubbed his shin roughly as he squinted through the pain of the impact.

‘Anthony, are you all right? Are you hurt? We better get him to
the house, Dad.' Sarah dropped to her knees, touching Anthony's face in concern.

‘I haven't got a temperature, you know,' he complained, pushing her arm away. ‘I'm not an invalid.' Some of the shearers were sniggering in the background. ‘I'm all right, Sarah.' He rubbed his hand down the side of his calf muscle to gingerly check the surrounding area.

‘Fine.' Sarah took a step back, watching as her father and brother pulled Anthony up off the ground. Anthony's eyes found hers. For just a moment Sarah thought she saw something fleeting cross his face, then just as quickly his expression changed again and he threw her a cocky smile. Frowning, Sarah turned from him and began walking away from the woolshed.

‘Well, Cameron,' Angus called out gruffly, ‘you're not part of the local rescue team. Hook that generator up and get the shed going.'

‘You were bloody lucky that didn't break your leg in two,' Ronald said. ‘Jump in the Toyota with me, Anthony, and we'll go put some ice on that,' he suggested as the generator kicked over and the comforting whirr of the shears echoed from deep inside the woolshed.

Ronald watched his father in the driver's side mirror, the image of him decreasing in size, his bulky form leaning nonchalantly on the side of his Land Cruiser, the muzzle of his dog, Shrapnel, resting in the crook of his arm. ‘Fucking old master and bloody commander,' Ronald muttered. A simple nod of approval was beyond the old bastard. How hard would it have been? No-one was badly injured, the shearers were going again and by nightfall the ewes would be back in their paddock.

‘Right then, we'll get you that ice and then all that is left to do is calm the cook, call the electrician and hope to hell he makes it out here in the next hour or so, otherwise Clayton will probably bugger off.'

‘Pretty much a normal day then, Ronald,' Anthony grinned.

‘Pretty much. Sarah, do you want a lift?' he called out to his daughter as he slowed his vehicle on the road leading from the woolshed.

‘Hop in,' Anthony agreed.

‘I'd rather walk, thanks.'

‘Suit yourself.' Ronald wasn't much in the mood for surly women.

Sarah trudged on up the road, shutting her eyes against the flying grit. She was hardly going to sit in the same vehicle with Anthony after the way he had just spoken to her.

‘You'll have to go back you know, girl.'

It was her grandfather, driving at a snail's pace beside her.

‘Men, particularly young men, don't take too kindly to being fussed over.'

‘I didn't fuss over him.'

Angus lifted his forefinger for silence. The only Gordon that ever interrupted him was young Sarah and he admired her for that. ‘They don't take kindly to being fussed over in front of anyone who could give them a hard time about it later. And those shearers will give Anthony a hard time about it. He works for me, remember, and you're my granddaughter.'

‘But …'

‘Don't argue. Secretly we like the fussing. Just make sure you go back to the shed this afternoon.'

‘Why?'

Angus lifted his eyes skyward. ‘Because otherwise you'll be surly with Anthony for the next week. Then you'll get surly with your mother. Then Sue will complain more than usual, your father and I will argue …'

‘Again.' Sarah smiled.

Angus stopped his vehicle. ‘Yes, again, and Anthony will ask your brother what's going on and he'll come to me. And we are running a business here, not an agony aunt column.'

‘Grandfather,' Sarah hesitated, resting her arms on the open window of the passenger door, ‘I wanted to ask you …'

‘Yes?'

‘Well, I heard something the other morning. Mum and Dad were arguing. It was something about Cameron. It sounded strange, like they had this secret they were keeping from everybody.' She hesitated. ‘Even you.'

‘Ridiculous. Your mother has a fixation regarding Cameron. Everyone knows that.'

‘But –'

‘You don't want to pay attention to her.'

‘But –'

‘I have to attend to a few things.'

Sarah was left standing in a cloud of dust.

Shearing was finished. The team had already packed up and were enjoying a well-earned beer. Some of the men, lining up empty tins at the end of the lanolin-smoothed board, were playing bowls; others were cleaning and packing away the metal combs they used for shearing. Cameron was urging the men to join him at the closest village, Wangallon Town. Few needed convincing. Sarah sat quietly on a large wool bale, enjoying the smell of wool, manure and powdery soil trampled ceaselessly by yarded sheep. The men talked and laughed, spun stories and mostly ignored her, not quite sure how to include the boss's granddaughter. Sarah observed their easy banter for a few more minutes before leaving the shed to cross the wooden fences of the sheep yards. Scuffing the dirt with her boots, she muttered angrily under her breath. She had gone back as her
grandfather had ordered and Anthony was nowhere to be seen.

‘Where you off to?' Cameron grinned, his battered army green jeep shuddering as it idled to a stop next to her.

‘Jump in,' Anthony called, opening the door for her. Sarah smiled – maybe her grandfather was right.

Back at the house, Cameron coerced their parents into agreement. Tonight they were off to the pub.

Sarah spent the night in the ladies bar, drinking lemonade. Cameron sat cross-legged on the corner counter that separated the bar itself from the public drinking area and the ladies lounge. He occasionally slipped her a rum and coke, watching over her, entertaining everyone with his stories and jokes. Between Sarah and the shearers in the public bar, Cameron held court while Anthony jumped the bar, deciding he would help pull beers during the evening.

‘Tell us another one, Cameron,' one of the shearers enthused, a schooner of beer in hand.

‘Well …' Cameron scratched his head, his face widening into a mischievous grin. He skolled his rum and coke and, within minutes, the young barmaid, all heaving bosom and bottle-blonde hair, was holding another one towards him.

‘There you go, Cameron,' she sighed, her free hand coming to rest on his thigh. ‘I never charge my special customers.'

Cameron pinched her cheek playfully, the soft skin yielding easily under his touch as it had only last weekend.

‘That's enough, Lottie,' the publican bellowed, as he tucked a pristine white shirt into skinny-legged cowboy jeans. ‘There are a few other blokes here that need some attention.'

With a quick smile at Cameron, Lottie moved to collect empty glasses from along the bar.

‘You're not wrong there,' one of the patrons yelled from the opposite end of the bar, holding up his empty schooner glass. ‘A little service wouldn't go astray.'

‘No soliciting allowed at this pub,' another boomed. ‘Now what about that joke?'

‘What do blondes and cow shit have in common?' Cameron called loudly across the crowded bar.

The barmaid narrowed her eyes.

‘The older they get, the easier they are to pick up.'

The bar erupted into bellows of laughter. Lottie stared hard at Cameron and poked her tongue out at Sarah, who was doubled up in mirth. Instantly Cameron slipped off the bar to give the girl a quick hug. She grudgingly responded, eventually pushing at him a little with her well padded hips.

‘Oh, Lottie, I wasn't referring to you, my bonnie lass,' he said softly, putting on a very poor Scottish accent. Then, more loudly, ‘I was talking about real blondes.'

‘Oh, get away. I would rather spend my time with Anthony.'

‘Sorry.' Anthony gave an apologetic grin and took his elbows off the bar as she approached him. ‘I'm too busy working for the Gordons to have any spare time for romancing.' Plus, he was hardly going to cut Cameron's lunch.

‘Really?' Lottie responded, her grey eyes crinkling up under a thoughtful frown as she threw Sarah another kiss-of-death stare. ‘Suppose that depends on your definition of working.'

The bar erupted again into bellows of laughter.

‘She's got you there, Anthony,' Cameron nodded towards his sister.

Sarah took a gulp of her drink. She could feel her face heating up under the room's scrutiny.

‘Less travel involved,' one of the shearers commented. ‘And you know what they say about the end of the rainbow.' He sniggered into his schooner glass.