A Changing Land (16 page)

The thought chilled her more than the tiny pinprick goose bumps on her skin and she thought of her great-grandfather. Years ago she'd recognised the cycle of continuity that was Wangallon. In the past it had been fed by the ambitions of her forefathers and their obsessive need to protect the Gordon land, and she'd witnessed this all-encompassing desire for security in her own grandfather's actions. Succession for the Gordons had never been messy. Why was it now? Suddenly Wangallon was being challenged on two fronts and Sarah didn't know what to do.

Returning to bed she huddled close to Anthony, the heat from his body warming her immediately as she cocooned against his back. His warmth sped through her as she aligned limb against limb, traversing each small gap between them until only a breath of air infiltrated the spaces between their bodies. Sarah listened to the rise and fall of his breathing as she wrapped an arm around him. She willed him to wakefulness, praying he would turn towards her encircling arm and gather her up as he'd done so many times in the past. At night there could be a coming together, for surely here within the confines of the room in which they'd grown to know each other so intimately, need would reunite them. It was not possible for Sarah to forgive his behaviour, at least not immediately; nor could she ignore the basic longing that consumed her. This was the man she loved and needed. Anthony was part of the landscape of Wangallon, he was her family. Outside the verandah Sarah heard Bullet's low growl. Anthony gave a loud snore, coughed and then rolled onto his stomach. Sarah moved back to her side of the bed. The flannelette sheets were cold.

‘Excellent, Mrs Gordon.' Jacob Wetherly rested his damask napkin on the polished wood of the dining table and twirled the stem of his glass. ‘You cannot imagine the pleasure of being at a cultured table once more. And I believe I've not had roasted boar for some time. My compliments to your cook and no doubt to you as well, Mrs Gordon, for a table is only as remarkable as the mistress that rules over it.' He raised his glass and, finding it empty, gave a small frown.

‘Our previous stud master, Andrew Duff, will now assume Boxer's position as head stockman,' Hamish announced irritably. ‘I advised the men today, Wetherly.' Hamish pushed the crystal brandy decanter across the table to his left and watched as Wetherly topped his glass past the level of decorum. ‘Duff is better acquainted with sheep, however he's really too valuable to lose.'

‘And Boxer?' Claire enquired.

‘He has earned his rest.'

‘The man has been indispensable for over forty years, Mr Wetherly. A great mark of loyalty towards my husband,' Claire revealed, sliding a morsel of custard onto her spoon. ‘Do you not agree?'

Wetherly nodded politely, his own dessert spoon rounding his shallow bowl with renewed concentration.

‘I think we should withdraw to take brandy,' Hamish announced, his hands grasping at the arms of the great carver chair.

So soon?
It had been some time since Claire had enjoyed the company of such a cultured guest and although Wetherly was somewhat obvious in his attempts to charm, his was an amusing diversion. She waited patiently as Mr Wetherly passed the decanter back to Hamish, hoping he might be inclined to sit at the table for just a little longer. It was a convivial evening after all and no one could deny the elegant setting. Their candlelit surrounds highlighted a pair of skilfully painted emu eggs perched either side of a French marble clock on the mantlepiece and although her husband's grandiose oil portrait tended to dwarf near everything else in the room, she could hardly complain when her own imperfect rendering hung in the drawing room. She patted at her hair, pleased at the effect she'd managed to achieve without the services of a maid. Built up over strategically placed pads, her dark hair curled and puffed out most becomingly.

‘And are there many social engagements one can look forward to here, Mrs Gordon?' Wetherly moved his arm to allow the maid to clear his dessert plate. There was a clatter of porcelain and silver.

Claire took a sip of water. ‘I usually hold a number of soirees a year. Unfortunately 1908 has proved exceedingly dull.' She looked directly along the length of the table to where Hamish glowered.

As if sensing the change in his host's demeanour, Wetherly tapped his nose knowledgeably and turned to Hamish. ‘There is some wild Aborigine causing mayhem just south of here.'

‘A renegade?' Hamish asked, his fingers tapping the table with interest.

‘Apparently so. He has been travelling northwards. The constabulary thought they'd caught him at Ridge Gully but the black they'd chained to the tree for three days died before the land-holder for whom he worked could vouch for his innocence.'

‘Oh dear.' Claire shuddered. ‘How terrible.'

Hamish poured more brandy.

‘It happens.' Wetherly drained his glass. ‘However, Mrs Gordon, if you have suffered for a lack of entertainment you can be sure this savage assisted in the decision of many a hostess this season.'

Hamish gave a belch that carried down the length of the table. Claire turned her nose up distastefully. With that singular announcement he scraped the tapestry-backed chair across the polished wooden floor. ‘Yes, well, enough with the pleasantries. If you will excuse us, Claire.'

Mr Wetherly gave a formal bow. ‘Delightful, Mrs Gordon. Perhaps in repayment of your hospitality your husband will allow me the pleasure of escorting you about your spacious garden.'

Claire composed her features into a mask of politeness as their dinner guest looked pointedly from her husband to Claire. She could think of nothing more delightful than a stroll with Mr Wetherly, firmly reminding herself that her interest in being alone with him had absolutely nothing to do with the scandalous tidbit of information Mrs Webb had so thoughtfully let escape from her lips. ‘I would be delighted.'

‘Unfortunately, Wetherly, my wife retires early and you and I have much to discuss.'

‘Come, Sir. Ten minutes of your time,' Wetherly insisted. ‘The walk will be quite invigorating. You should join us.'

Claire kept her lips pressed together.

‘I will leave you to enjoy the night air,' Hamish relented. ‘But ten minutes and no more. I am an early riser.'

‘Of course.' Wetherly bowed as he left the table.

Claire stepped lightly across the grass as they crossed to walk the length of the gravel driveway. She was pleased with her new evening gown. Having purchased it through Grace Brothers' mail order service, this was only her second occasion to wear it and at the rate fashions were changing, very soon it too would have to be altered. In the space of just a few years women's clothing had gone from the rather S-shaped silhouette that emphasised one's bust and derriere, to a more vertical appearance. Although her figure was contained by the rigid under-structure of her corset, she did like the current fashion of a slightly high-waisted skirt that fluted becomingly over one's hips to sweep outwards at the hem. Claire lifted her skirt just a touch, conscious of the grass, leaves and dirt that would catch on the fringing. An owl swooped. The frightened squeal of a mouse followed. As the countryside bedded itself, the outlines of the homestead and station buildings slid into a glow of sun-settled pinkness.

‘It is as if we were promenading along Collins Street,' Wetherly remarked as a wallaby dashed through the grasses beyond the garden.

Claire's arm was linked through his as the evening stretched into darkness. It was a hot night, cloudless, with not even a zephyr to stir the air. It was a most pleasant sensation to be strolling with an amiable gentleman, especially one so becoming in appearance.

‘I see you adhere to the latest fashions, Mrs Gordon.'

‘One tries.' Cocooned as they were within the twilight embrace of a summer's night, Claire felt her person the subject of intent observation. When Wetherly guided her from the path across the
patchy lawn to a wooden bench, his hand moved to the small of her back. It lingered only momentarily, leaving a fleeting impression of genuine care and interest. Careful, she warned herself. Had she not been forewarned of the gentleman's indiscretions?

‘And do you enjoy your life out here? You will excuse me, Mrs Gordon, for my forwardness; however, it is a remote, lonely environment for an elegant woman such as yourself to endure.'

‘You have journeyed here.' She made a little space between their bodies, moving slightly away from him. It was a warm night and the lace insertions stretching to her high-boned collar itched Claire's upper back and décolletage. ‘Life requires adaptability, Mr Wetherly. There will always be fulfilment and disappointment no matter where one resides. Admittedly station life has its own set of difficulties, yet once one grows to understand the parameters of their existence, life tends to become easier.'

Wetherly crossed his legs. ‘It is a burden to be endured.'

‘On the contrary, it is a challenge. Isolation causes one to be a little introspective, Mr Wetherly. If you are expecting me to pine for the perfect life you will be disappointed. What is the perfect life anyway? I can admit to disliking the dearth of social engagements available, the annoyance of petty conversations and the lack of women of my own elk with similar interests and accomplishments; however, these are petty complaints, I believe.' A swirl of stars began to dust the sky.

‘You are not what I expected,' commented Wetherly.

She gave a gay laugh. ‘Nor you, Mr Wetherly.' Around them the barest of winds stirred the air. It carried the scent of dry earth and spoke of parched grasses clinging tenuously to lifting soil. ‘May I enquire as to whether you have family in New South Wales?'

‘Alas, no. The family seat is in Devon. My older brother, Harold, has the good fortune of residing there.'

‘So you have come to make your fortune?'

Now it was Wetherly's turn to be amused. ‘It is a little long in the making, I fear.'

Claire gave a wistful sigh. ‘England. I dream of the coolness the very word evokes.'

‘Ah then, I shan't tell you of lush grasses, sparkling streams and the picking of wild strawberries in the summer.'

‘Do tell.'

He took her hand, drawing Claire towards him with a delicate slowness. ‘If I told you, that brave exterior in which you've cloaked yourself would surely crack.'

His features were barely visible. Claire could just discern the strength of his jawline and the outline of his hair. She could have chosen to be annoyed at his familiarity, instead she wondered at his own charming facade.

‘Come.' He extended his hand and they resumed their walk. Claire lifted her tasselled hemline above the ground as they approached the house.

‘You are a devotee of this trend in greasy wool, I believe, Mr Wetherly. Can you tell me if it will last?'

‘Who knows, Mrs Gordon? We follow market preferences like a child pining for candy.' Within a few minutes they were on the verandah and Wetherly was assisting her indoors. ‘Our allotted ten minutes are up.'

He took her hand in the hallway. Claire turned hesitantly towards the partially ajar drawing room door. Hamish was merely a wall's width away.

‘Business precludes me from your company, Mrs Gordon, for which I am sorry.' He bent and kissed her hand. ‘However I don't believe our parting will be short-lived.'

Claire gave her best smile of understanding as Wetherly strode confidently away to join her husband. As the door at the end of the hall closed and male voices rose in conversation, Claire brushed at a smudge of dust on the hall table, straightened a landscape hanging on the wall above and shook the layers of her skirt free of dust. With those three things attended to there
was nothing left to do but retire to her room. In the quieting household the muffled voices of the men carried through the empty rooms. Claire thought back to their conversation and fell asleep smiling.

Jim pressed his forehead against the oval window of the fourseater Cessna and watched the countryside move beneath him like some great lumbering animal. Having left the mountains some time ago he watched, fascinated, as the land had spread out beneath him in rectangular shapes, growing ever larger as they headed north-west. It was as if he flew above a vast patchwork quilt, where sage greens competed with the full spectrum of browns: coffee, tan and russet. There were long, straight roads heading endlessly onwards, massive trucks towing second trailers, and scattered buildings and livestock massed in some areas like the pebbles on the edge of the loch. He'd not imagined a country could be so vast.

‘First visit, mate?'

Jim adjusted the headset, ‘Aye.' He wasn't exactly expecting a welcoming committee. In fact he didn't even expect Sarah to pick him up. His father explained that the outback properties employed staff to assist in the running of their businesses, so he expected a
car and driver and little else. That in itself was a novelty. His family wasn't used to money, at least not the sort of money the Gordons were sitting on. He didn't know what to expect and the thought made him both angry with himself for making the trip and nervous. He felt like a lowly crofter seeking the assistance of a wealthy Englishman and had to remind himself more than once that he was a blood relation and that the Gordons were no better than him. Jim pushed his shoulders back and straightened his spine in the cramped seat. His mother had only given him one piece of advice upon learning of his decision and that was
to walk tall.

The plane was descending quickly. Jim pressed his nostrils together with thumb and forefinger and blew to relieve the pressure in his ears. He touched his breast pocket. Inside was an envelope containing the details of a specialist in estate law who would also arrange the transfer of funds to The Bank of Scotland. A scatter of ten houses or so appeared through the window and then disappeared as the plane circled towards the landing strip. They came in low. A rush of trees and gravel sped past them and then they were lifting upwards again.

‘What happened?' Jim asked, concerned at the abruptness of the manoeuvre.

‘Roos.' The pilot pointed to where eight grey kangaroos were bounding away from the strip and into the bush. ‘They come in for the green pick at the edge of the strip. Bloody nuisance.'

The pilot brought the plane back around again and they landed with the maximum of bumps and a screech of gravel that sent them careering off course and into the dry dirt off the edge of the strip. As the plane stopped, Jim was jolted forward. His breath caught in his throat and he decided that when he finally left this blasted place he would get a hire car.

The pilot grinned, his irregular-shaped teeth forming a flashy contrast against the dark tan of his face. ‘Sorry about that, mate. The old girl tends to do that sometimes.'

When the billowing dust finally settled, Jim saw a woman standing beside a white truck. He slung his bag over his shoulder as he walked towards the solitary vehicle. Despite his best intentions his chest lurched just a little and he automatically slowed the pace of his walk, conscious of the past. It was Sarah and she was unchanged. Her red-gold hair was tied away from her face, her hands shoved deep in the pockets of her jeans. Jim adjusted the bag on his shoulder.

‘Good trip?' Sarah asked politely. She thought back to their first meeting in the ruins near Tongue. Their roles were completely reversed. Now it was his turn to be in a foreign land.

‘Aye.'

Deciding against any physical show of welcome she got behind the steering wheel. ‘Throw your bag in the back and we'll be off.'

Jim slid into the passenger seat. ‘I wasn't expecting you.'

Sarah recalled his brief letter. ‘I considered my options, Jim, after you pointed out this wasn't going to be a pleasant reunion. But Wangallon is a working property. I can't pull people off jobs even if I wanted to.'

There it was, the clipped tone of someone who was firmly in charge. Jim recalled Robert Macken's parting words: ‘Remember the old man that willed you the money is dead. Them that are left may not have been taught how to share.'

‘How's the season?' Jim had heard the line used between two wide-brim-hatted men at the airport in Sydney.

Sarah turned towards him briefly, her eyes narrowing. ‘Good enough'. She slowed as they turned down the main street of Wangallon Town, idling the vehicle to a stop outside the Wangallon Town Hotel. ‘Thought you might prefer to stay here?' She let the question hang, positive he would agree that sleeping under the same roof was a bad idea.

Jim looked at the peeling paintwork and reminded himself of the purpose of his journey. He was here to meet his father, have a
look at the property and then get his money. Although part of him would be happy to escape into the pub, it wouldn't help his cause being stuck here without transport. ‘No, thanks. Wangallon will be fine.'

‘You sure?' Sarah persevered. Silence answered her. The pub and its wrought iron upstairs balcony disappeared in the rear-view mirror. ‘You might be interested to know that this town was built just before my great-grandfather selected Wangallon. My family has been here a long time, Jim. We have a proud history.'

‘You forget, Sarah, it's my family too.'

She hadn't forgotten, but she considered the link tenuous at best. He had his own family in Scotland and they were good people. ‘I'm surprised your parents agreed to you coming out here.'

‘Do you begrudge me the right to my inheritance?'

She wanted to say yes, that he had no right to take something that he did not create himself, that he had never been part of; that he wasn't born to. The length of time it took her to answer betrayed her true feelings. The air grew tense between them. Sarah wound down the window and breathed in the freshening wind. In a month it would be spring. Turning up the radio, she took the back route into the property. It cut through West Wangallon and added an extra five gates to the normal four. She figured the exercise wouldn't hurt him.

‘I grew up there.' She pointed out the West Wangallon homestead. ‘After mum and dad retired to the coast the place was locked up for a while. Matt Schipp, our stock manager, lives there now.'

‘But Ronald's back here, isn't he?'

‘Nope.' If Jim had been hoping for a showdown with her father it wasn't going to happen. He looked disappointed and for the briefest of moments she felt sorry for this boy who had travelled halfway around the world thinking he would meet his birth father.

‘But you told him I was coming.'

‘Nope.'

‘Why not?'

‘You didn't mention your undying need to meet him.'

‘That's a bit unfair.'

‘So sue me.' Bad choice of words, Sarah decided.

‘I want him told.'

‘You don't get to make demands, Jim. My mother's ill and Dad has enough stress at the moment.'

By the time they reached the main homestead it was nearing lunchtime. They passed Matt and young Jack walking eight Hereford bulls into the yards. Sarah didn't slow as she normally would to chat to them. She skimmed her eyes over the lumbering beasts, waving as she continued on to Wangallon Homestead. Wordlessly she parked the Landcruiser and walked up the back path, kicking her riding boots off at the back step. Bullet was there instantly, slithering out from beneath the rainwater tank to give Sarah's hand a quick lick and bestow upon Jim a low growl.

‘Nice dog.' Jim reached out to pat him, as he removed his shoes.

‘I wouldn't,' Sarah advised. ‘He's very loyal.' Bullet wagged his tail at her voice, his head cocked to one side, and then silently began to chew on Jim's rubber-soled footwear.

Inside the homestead they walked through the kitchen and living areas, Jim pausing at the entrance to the dining room to sweep the room with his eyes. The silver gleamed on the mahogany sideboard, the chandelier sparkled and the various side tables, lamps and oil paintings gave off an aura of aged elegance. Having grown up with her family's possessions, Sarah appreciated the years of toil that had led to their accumulation whereas Jim was stepping into a world completely different to his own. Having him to stay in the homestead was her first mistake.

‘Who's that?' He pointed to the large oil above the sideboard.

‘Hamish Gordon. He founded Wangallon.' Sarah shivered, there seemed to be a chill in the room. She rubbed her forearms briskly. ‘The other is his second wife, Claire.'

‘She's a good-looking woman.'

‘They say she managed to civilise Hamish, at least for a while.'

‘Meaning what?'

Sarah hunched her shoulders. ‘If you'd stayed at the pub you would have heard any number of stories.'

They continued through the homestead, passing the reading room and music room before turning left from the main hallway. For some reason Sarah decided to put Jim in the oldest wing of the house. The plaster was cracked and crumbling in spots and the dry seasons combined with the earth's movement caused the house stumps to push and pull at the floorboards so that any remainder of a flat surface was in memory only.

‘What's through there?' Jim pointed at the end of the hallway where a faded blue and green tapestry of the Scottish Highlands hung.

‘It used to lead out past the dining room through to the original covered walkway to the cook house.' Sarah gestured to a bedroom door. ‘Sorry if it smells a little stale. It needed a bit more of an airing.' Her apology was automatic and borne more out of politeness than concern. Drawing aside the velvet duck-egg blue curtains, a stream of light entered the room. Everything was blue, the walls, carpet, even the bedspread. It had been her grandmother's favourite room for she and Angus followed the habits of their forefathers and kept separate bedrooms. Before Jessica, Hamish's second wife, Claire, claimed it until her untimely death in an automobile accident.

‘Nice,' Jim commented, gazing out the French doors leading out onto the verandah. ‘You must have thought Scotland very basic.' He dropped his bag on the floor.

‘Actually I loved Scotland. Your houses are built to withstand the cold. Out here we have large spacious rooms to fight the heat.' He was standing with his back towards the French doors, the wintery light of early afternoon silhouetting his solid build.

‘You can have a tour of the property in the morning.' Sarah wanted to add that she hoped it may stop him from making any hasty decisions. ‘I'll get Matt to take you out.'

‘This is difficult. I still remember the day you left. All this seems surreal.'

Sarah took a step back. ‘Yes. It does.'

‘We were friends once.'

‘Jim, what do you expect of me? You're only here for your inheritance, otherwise you wouldn't have bothered coming. Your letter said it all.' He was staring at her, scrutinising her as if trying to understand the person before him.

‘You've grown hard, Sarah Gordon.'

‘I've grown realistic, which I should, don't you think, considering the circumstances.' Opening a camphor wood chest she took out a thick woollen blanket, setting it on the end of his bed.

‘I thought this would be easier, that you would appreciate my situation.'

‘What? When you don't
appreciate
mine?' She turned on a gold and cream bedside lamp. ‘You know nothing about Wangallon or my life here.'

‘Perhaps not, but I do own a thirty per cent share and I would have thought that even you, Sarah Gordon,' he emphasised the surname, ‘would
appreciate
that.'

Sarah rubbed automatically at a smear of dust on the dresser. ‘You come here after discovering you are related and expect a grand welcome and a golden handshake. Where have you been during the last one hundred and thirty plus years of Wangallon's life?'

‘That's a damn unfair thing to say. After all it was your father who decided to keep everything secret.'

‘Oh I see, and you were conceived through divine intervention and your mother was physically forced to keep the truth of her child's father a secret. Please don't have the audacity to stand there and tell me it's my father's fault. Your mother obviously never had any intention of revealing who your father was and Dad didn't even know your mother was pregnant when he left Scotland.' Sarah's chest heaved. She could have said much more, although Jim was already looking shocked. ‘You didn't know that?'

Jim paled. ‘No.'

Sarah thought of her mother's indifference during her childhood. Jim's existence was only part of the cause for it. Sue Gordon had also taken a lover and after his accidental death, she doted on their love child, Cameron. If Jim was intent on recriminations, he could have a lesson in blame apportioning. She could ill afford to feel sorry for him. ‘I'll leave sandwiches in the fridge for you.' That was the best she could offer. She certainly wasn't going to do his cooking. ‘There's space in the wardrobe if you need to hang anything and if you need water, use the brass tap in the kitchen. It's rainwater. The rest of the house is running on dam water at the moment. We haven't had rain for a while.'