The Bark Cutters (23 page)

‘I am a girl, Mr Leach. There is a preconceived notion about what people are capable of.'

Matt placed his empty glass on a passing tray and looked at the troubled young face in front of him. The girl carried the unmistakable violet eyes of the Gordons, but there was something else. Then he recognised it. It was the same unbearable desolation that he had seen reflected in the mirror following the death of his own dear wife. Sarah Gordon was lost. ‘There are preconceived notions about lots of things, Sarah. Whether you choose to make use of them purely for convenience, well, that's another matter.'

Well
, Sarah thought,
here endeth the lesson.
‘Anything else?' she asked cheekily, hoping to direct the conversation back to a more lighthearted tone.

‘Give my regards to your grandfather.'

‘I will, thanks.' Sarah watched him leave. She looked into the bottom of her glass, swirling the now warm remains. Across the room, Jeremy stood with Julie and Petra. They were all laughing. Nearby Sally Bounds, a former client, was waving at Sarah, trying to catch her attention. Sarah wished she could shake off her doldrums and join Sally for a drink, however all she really wanted at this exact moment was a good glass of cabernet and the solitude of her apartment. She waved at Sally and left the function room.

In the comfort of her small studio apartment, she relaxed against the soft-brushed cotton of her dressing gown. This gift from her grandmother had been her home since her departure from Wangallon. Its tiny balcony had a wonderful view of Centennial Park, enlivening and soothing her spirits. Decorated in shades of white and palest green, the walls were covered with framed photographs. There were old aerial shots of Wangallon and West Wangallon, showing her parents' house in the early stages of construction, while the main homestead's roof was as dominant on the landscape as a mountain.

Black-and-white shots of Scotland, unwanted photographs from her father's collection, were neatly framed. There were ones of lochs and hills, of a small cottage built into a hillside, with smoke curling tightly upwards. The pictures were so bare, their raw beauty incredibly appealing. Sarah liked looking at them; particularly the one of the small cottage. On the reverse of the shot, written in ink were the words
Village of Tongue, 1961
. It was the old country of the Gordons, a land only her father had visited, the same land her grandfather was totally uninterested in.

The collage was completed with shots of prize stud sheep and cattle, Angus' race-horses, and family members, some long since departed, at Christmas and Easter gatherings. Her favourites, those of herself and Cameron, took pride of place. There they were standing chest-deep in wheat, swimming in a river, doubling on the same horse, their faces pressed close together. Dirt-covered scallywags with black-blue icy-pole tongues poking out cheekily.

From the cupboard Sarah took an already open bottle of cabernet and, removing the silver wine stopper, poured a glass. In was then that she noticed the blinking light on her answering machine. Taking a large satisfied gulp of wine, her finger hovered over the play button before finally pressing it.

‘Sarah. It's your grandfather. I've booked you a ticket home on Friday night's plane. Humour an old man, will you, lass.'

Topping up her glass, Sarah tried to figure out why she was needed so urgently. What did it matter, Sarah decided as she moved to sit on the floor of the balcony. It was nice to be needed and a weekend away could hardly hurt. A steady wind blew up from the harbour. Profiled by the halo of the sportsground, the trees of the park waved enticingly, the glow of the city forming a crescent shape in a night sky devoid of stars. Beyond lay the jigsaw of the suburbs, each small house protecting its inhabitants and their way of life. Protecting memories of loss and love swirling like willy-willies in a myriad of households. The built-up boxes thinned out as they grew further west, thinned out like the tufts of grass swaying in the heat of Wangallon's forty-degree summers. Taking another large sip of wine Sarah closed her eyes. She huddled into the corner of the balcony, pulling the collar of her dressing gown tighter against her throat, willing herself to sleep. Sleep. It was her one escape, if she didn't dream of the old days.

Placing her spoon on the small dessert plate, Rose patiently waited while her husband finished his dinner. Her right hand moved to gently twirl the fine cut-glass water goblet. Then her forefinger stroked the silver dessert spoon, until finally her fingers met around the linen napkin resting in her lap. A dozen of everything, she thought as she mentally began counting the contents of the large mahogany sideboard to relieve the boredom. Twelve entree forks and knives, twelve dinner forks and knives, twelve dessert forks and spoons, twelve soup spoons, twelve cake forks, twelve bread knifes, twelve teaspoons. Then there were the linen napkins, tablecloths, glassware, decanters and spirits to match. Wines, whisky, brandy.

Milly, Boxer's niece, cleared the table slowly and, with a small curtsy, exited the room.

‘Is all arranged for Abdul Faiz Abishara?'

His voice startled Rose. She sucked in her breath automatically, the action lessening the ache of the thick bandages binding
her breasts. She thought numbly of her milk drying up as the heat dried the land about them. Dinner usually passed without conversation and certainly without questions, for there was little to discuss. With one of Boxer's wives now wet nurse, her days stretched wearily ahead with long, unfulfilled hours.

Pushing his chair back noisily over the polished wooden floorboards, Hamish drummed his fingers irritably. Vaguely he recalled an entertaining, well-educated young girl, a creature totally distinct from the woman now forlornly gracing this fine oak table, purchased and transported at considerable expense.

‘Howard, Luke and William will sleep with Mrs Cudlow for the duration of the visit,' Rose began slowly, ‘baby Samuel with me. Lee has already discussed the menu with Mrs Cudlow, and the new bed linen is finished.'

‘Good. I expect Abdul will bring a relation with him and any number of attendants. Still, we will know upon his arrival.'

Hamish glanced contentedly around the room. An arrangement of wild flowers, white and yellow daisies and bluebells, sat in a small glass vase on the mantlepiece over the fireplace, directly above it hung his portrait. The large oil painted by a well known Sydney artist, presented him seated in a high-backed brown leather chair, with both arms resting along the thick armrests. Hamish was particularly pleased with the studious inclination of his head and the dark tan of his face contrasting, as it did, with the crisp white of his shirt. The burgundy smoking jacket added to the overall composition of the piece and he would be pleased when the Abishara brothers could discuss the work's merits. Matching decorative plates hung either side of the gilt frame and a large lacquered fan, vibrant in shades of red and gold, hung above the doorway leading to the drawing room. After some refection, Hamish considered it a bold, yet not unattractive purchase, made by his wife from a travelling Chinese hawker not two years ago.

‘The Afghan's business is usually conducted further inland. I anticipated a trip to Bourke. However, Abdul is calling on clients north of us after overseeing the arrival of camels from Karachi.'

Rose smiled encouragingly; rarely did she receive so much information. ‘This man, Abdul, is based in Bourke?' she inquired sweetly, her voice dropping in tone.

‘The Bourke Carrying Company.' Hamish let his eyes wander over the matching mahogany sideboard with its decanters of sherry and brandy, then the rather ornate bookcase with its delicately carved scrolls and flowers. ‘I have ordered wallpaper for this room: red roses on cream and yellow ones for the sitting room. I thought perhaps you would prefer yellow.' Hamish cleared his throat loudly.

Rose fidgeted with the small gold band on her finger, anxious Hamish not see the widening of her eyes at this news. ‘Yellow, yes, yes, I like yellow.' Perhaps tomorrow she would remove the bandages from her chest. Check her gowns. Wash her hair. Perhaps tomorrow she would walk to the creek, then later, when the sun grew hot and the countryside still, she would recline on the large rose-coloured settee resting beneath the main window opposite her, where the burgundy velvet drapes cut out the heat of the day.

‘Already there is discontent between the bullockies and the Afghans. Still, business is business. Competition, competition is what continues to build this country.' Hamish slammed his fist on the table. Rose flinched at the hard passion in her husband's words.

‘I hope you will try to be a little more entertaining when our guests are here. The piano I ordered will arrive shortly and with practice, no doubt, you will do nicely for them.'

‘Do nicely for them.' Repeating the words dispassionately, Rose rose from the table, her napkin dropping to the floor. She
had not played the piano since their arrival at Wangallon nearly five years ago.

‘You never discuss anything with me; not the furniture that fills this home, not the piano, the wallpaper, the glassware, cutlery, none of it.' Not even the advance overheard in Hamish's study some weeks ago, she thought. News Jasperson and Dave were clearly more suited to hearing about. A substantial advance received for their coming consignment of wool, wool grown on sheep amassed through theft and deceit. Perhaps after all it was better she knew nothing of his purchases, for when Rose remembered where the money came from, she did not want any of it.

‘Rose, in the past when I've attempted to discuss such things, you have barely listened.'

It was true, she admitted to herself. She drew listless in his company, for Hamish only reminded her of how imperfect her world had become.

‘Rose, the piano and wallpaper will arrive in the next fortnight; at least a month before Abdul's arrival.'

‘Very well.' Rose stooped to collect the dropped napkin.

‘I ordered two dress silks for you, a blue and pink. I thought they would do you very well. I have business this evening. Jasperson and Dave are joining me in my study. Goodnight.'

Little point lay in a reply. He was already gone and with him the harsh male scents of dust, sweat and tobacco smoke. Dropping her napkin on the dining table, Rose listened to the approaching overseers as they scuffed the dirt of the yard, the quick stride of Jasperson, the shuffling gait of Dave. Along the narrow-timbered walkway leading to the kitchen and sleep-out, the scullery maids giggled quietly to themselves; a child mewed in sleep. Rose chose a novel from the bookcase, read the first page, then returned the book to its shelf.

It was late when Dave and Jasperson finally left the homestead. Hamish walked quietly past Rose's room, a lamp lighting his way as he entered his bedroom. He sat tiredly on his bed, sliding the thick leatherbound station ledger he carried between the mattress and bed-springs. Wangallon Station was thriving. There was no mistaking the figures. Fifty-thousand merino sheep ran freely on its plains. With the night thick about the homestead, he pulled a blanket from his bed and, treading stealthily across the cypress floorboards, opened the door leading out onto the verandah. The air was cool, a breeze ruffling the thickness of his hair. At this hour, with no moon and only the stars for company, he could almost believe he had obtained everything he wanted. He sat heavily in the refurbished milk-crate chair, dragging the blanket up high until it reached his chin, and warmth seeped into his body.

Hamish was pleased with his men, pleased with his property and, more than anything, pleased with his sheep. They no longer dotted the land as clouds dotted the sky, they covered it and on their backs grew the most valuable of commodities, wool. Once, having considered the profit margin of buying and selling cattle, their combined advantages, such as ease of movement, grazing and the lack of disease, he had quickly estimated the peak of the animals' demand. He had watched other pastoralists enter the market and make their profits, but it was with sheep that he saw his future, his and the country's. Money was in people; countries were modernising and mankind needed to be clothed.

Matthew Reynolds' comments regarding staff were correct. One had to ensure their loyalty and the only way to accomplish that out here was through money. The loneliness of his distant boundary riders often led to the desertion of their posts, so Hamish tried to only employ married men. He then paid a basic sum to the wives, over and above their husband's wages; in return the women cooked and watched out for their menfolk. A rotation
system was also introduced, with the couples moving yearly to different boundary huts. It was a simple strategy, with unreliable men quickly replaced by either whites or blacks. A solution made valuable by Boxer's ability to keep a tight rein on the behaviour of his people.

Wrapping the blanket securely about him, Hamish moved to the floor and lay flat, his back easing itself out against the smooth boards. He understood more than most why they wanted to remain on their tribal ground and they were indispensable with their knowledge of the local country. They could track effortlessly, knew where to find water at all times of the year and where to look for lost stock.

Turning on his side, Hamish propped his head up on his hand and stared into the brightness of the stars. One image shaped like a boiler with a handle caught his attention. The stars forming it were vivid against the blue-black of the night. For the rest of his life, the constellations would remind him of his journey to this great southern land. Although he'd not known at the start of his journey what lay ahead, Wangallon was and would continue to be his life's work. He could thank his beautiful, deceitful Mary and his dead brother for Wangallon. One had given him cause to start anew, the other, the dogged tenacity to succeed. Now he was nearing thirty-one years of age, with four sons under the age of nine. But all this was still not enough. There were over sixty souls under his care and yet his nights were spent either gazing at the expanse of the night sky or with a black girl called Milly. Hamish sighed, his mind recalling the sweet complexion of Claire Whittaker.