The Bark Cutters (31 page)

‘No.' Rose turned away from the glow of the house towards the expanse of the bush. Red streaks smeared across the horizon. ‘No, I've not seen my daughter these five years now.' She wondered at the changes within her girl child. Were her eyes still a wondrous brown? Did they shine with curiosity? Was her hair longer? Did Elizabeth think of her mama or had time and distance relegated Rose to a distant memory?

‘Why do you not visit?' Abdullah asked.

Surprised at the directness of his questioning, Rose began to walk back towards the house. She imagined she sounded uncaring, or worse, disinterested. By her side his footsteps, sure and heavy in the dirt, were the only reminders of his presence as blackness deepened. The twittering of dusk birdsong faded and the melancholy weight of a windless night entered the homestead yard.

‘I lost a child two years ago,' Rose began, the night freeing her thoughts. ‘Matthew is buried by the river's edge. A small white fence surrounds him, although there is space enough for others to follow.' At the verandah Rose hesitated. How positively impolite of her. Her husband's guests deserved entertainment. Witty and engaging conversation such as she'd once shared in Sir Malcolm's household. She could not bear these precious evenings to cease on account of her own dreary ramblings. Yet she could not think of one amusing story to share.

With Abdullah's hand delicately under her elbow, they mounted the two small steps onto the verandah. ‘I think your husband must always be away,' Abdullah said gently as they walked the length of the verandah.

Rose slowed her pace and they sat silently in the verandah chairs. Hamish, returning at the death of his son, immediately set about the construction of a white fence to surround the family graveyard. How could she explain to anyone, Rose wondered, that as a mother she had resigned herself to the fact that more of her children would likely die, whether by disease or accident or attack? Though God forbid their blacks should ever rise up against them. The construction of the graveyard, during which Jasperson whispered carelessly to Dave,
with room for more
, only emphasised the futility she felt in this bleak world.

‘I do not visit my daughter, as she is safe in such a town as Ridge Gully.' Rose folded her hands gently in her lap. ‘The travelling
would be too arduous and dangerous and of course I cannot leave my children here alone.' Rose's throat constricted with dryness at this last statement. She did not agree with one word of what she had just said, but what was she to do? One didn't share marital difficulties with a house guest.

Abdullah sat forward in his chair. He wanted to speak plainly, to tell her to take her children with her. Life was indeed harsh in this wild country and with death so prevalent he believed it vital to enjoy every precious moment one had with one's children. He himself had lost two sisters in infancy and was not immune to grief. Besides, he knew of many women who travelled with their young ones, but it was not his place to say anything. Indeed, each conversation between them straddled the boundaries of what men and women could discuss in polite society. Their light discussions regularly turned to deeper subjects, ones commonly shared between women.

Afterwards Abdullah lingered on the verandah, watching the pale blue silk of Rose's dress fade into the doorway of the house. The faint scent of lavender water trailed her progress and he was keenly aware of a sense of disappointment at her leaving. He imagined all women who lived on these remote stations were as lonely as Mrs Rose Gordon. Did they rush for the mail when it came, hopeful for a letter or parcel from a friend or relative? Did they push their own desires into the deepest recesses of their beings, concentrating instead on their children and the running of their households? He had seen her on the day of their arrival, a petite figure waiting patiently on the verandah, one hand supporting her on a timber pillar. He wondered how many years ago Wangallon's last visitors looked up into the cooling welcome of this verandah. Looked up into those deep eyes, with smudges of darkness muting the fine lines at the corners, crisscrossing the bridge of her nose when a smile graced the egg-shell porcelain of her features.

On the sixth day Abdullah presented his hostess with a rich bolt of moss-green silk and a selection of exquisite laces. Delighted with the laces, of which there were cuts for cuffs, necklines and more formal collars, Rose immediately planned the completion of a new evening dress prior to Abdullah's departure. To Mrs Cudlow he presented two bolts of fine cream linen, enough for a dress for herself and clothing for the children.

‘Abdullah, you are too generous.'

They had retired to the sitting room to take tea. Mrs Cudlow placed a large bone china platter of scones, treacle and cream on the small table between Rose and Abdullah and departed with a warm smile.

‘It is you who is generous, Rose.' Abdullah spoke her name in the same caressing way in which he had spread the moss-green silk before her, cautious of becoming too familiar with it, of addressing her by her Christian name in front of her husband and Abdul. ‘Opening your home to my brother and me, spending your precious time entertaining me when you have a busy household to manage.' Abdullah sipped his tea slowly, his little finger curling slightly out from the base of the cup. She was wearing a white linen blouse today, complemented by a darker skirt. It suited her well.

Rose rested back against the firm lounge chair. Only a few feet away, Abdullah reclined also, his eyes half-closed, his breathing slow, comfortable. She felt wonderfully languorous. Every fibre of her being oozed goodwill, in fact even Hamish had been the wary recipient of a warm smile at breakfast. Her appetite, meagre in the years since her arrival at Wangallon, also appeared to be growing daily and she felt stronger for it. She made an effort to spend time with her children once a day, ensured the day's menu
was suitable much to the surprise of both Lee and Mrs Cudlow, and slept a full eight hours every night. Overnight, her life was suddenly filled with the minute happenings of station life never previously noticed.

Rose gazed across to where Abdullah dozed. His long black eyelashes curved against the light tan of his skin, his lips partially open trembled slightly with every second or third breath. Rose watched mesmerised for a few moments before turning her eyes to the yellow rose wallpaper. It added to the serenity of the room, the room in which months before Rose had spoken her last words to Hamish in private. The day Milly murdered her young cousin. The matter discreetly forgotten by the occupants of the household lay in the back of Rose's mind. An eternal reminder of her sadness at the life she'd so foolishly chosen. Abdullah woke and gave her a caressing smile.

‘I feel I will need to walk four times around the perimeter of your garden, Mrs Gordon, so I am not forced to visit my tailor on my return to Sydney.'

‘Do call me Rose, Abdullah.'

‘In private only,' he relented. It was the third request.

‘In private then,' she repeated, their eyes meeting for just a few scant seconds.

He talked softly, his fingers rising to rub his clean-shaven cheek, to brush a fly from his face. All the while Rose savoured every moment; his words, his accent, his dress, his habit of inclining his head upon joining her, his musk-scented clothes, the stray hair escaping from his turban at the nape of his neck. It was an opportunity that few white women of her status had the privilege of enjoying, spending idle time with an exotic young man, alone, without a chaperone.

‘Would you care for me to read to you?' Rose walked to the mahogany bookshelf and selecting a book of verse, settled herself once more in her chair.

‘Indeed,' Abdullah extended his hand graciously in approval, ‘I should be delighted.'

As she read she became conscious of Abdullah walking about the room, examining various knick-knacks arranged artfully on the mantlepiece. Her concentration faltered as he moved to stand behind her, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders. Rose's breath quickened.

‘Do keep reading, Rose.'

His lips touched the nape of her neck, a single extraordinary kiss. Then Abdullah returned to his seat, folded his arms and closed his eyes.

Rose kept reading, though her breath quickened and her heart sped uncontrollably, unaware of Mrs Cudlow silently closing the door.

Hamish was looking forward to the next five years, for if the Abishara brothers brought with them the recognition of his success as a wool grower, they also brought hope. He had lived in turmoil for the last months since his return from Sydney. The dull days bore witness only to his wife's ill humour and the most unfortunate business with Milly. Now he glimpsed something tangible, similar to a sodden cloud in the west, hanging like hope on the horizon.

In return for a number of major introductions, which could only increase the Bourke Carrying Company's clientele, Hamish had sought one favour. It had been done, and now Claire Whittaker was lodged safely away from the dangers of the Sydney fringes. The fact that Hamish knew little of Claire was irrelevant. He placed great faith in that one moment on George Street. There, standing in the dirt under a butcher's awning, the fine cloth of his dark suit splattered with mud, he had seen a girl with
possibilities. They exchanged only a few brief words, however he recalled the lass's tender gestures towards her father and her face so full of the expectation of life that she looked as though she would fight her way towards it.

It was quite an improper exercise no doubt, but harmless, Hamish had decided. He had seen her, admired her and was in a position to be of assistance to her and, of course, the girl's father benefited as well. It was a splendid arrangement and the monthly reports he received as to her progress in her studies were a most enjoyable diversion; until he found himself thinking more of her than polite society would have deemed correct.

Hamish's conscience argued this was his chance to help a woman. To study her progress, to ensure her happiness and in doing so not only was he rescuing the young woman, but he was also proving by his very actions that some women were special and deserving of admiration, even if it was from afar. However, as the weeks passed, Hamish acknowledged his interest in Claire went beyond the purely altruistic motives he'd convinced himself of. In fact he found himself wanting the girl. He doubted Claire would be bored or indifferent like his wife and he was certain she'd not betray a loved one as his Mary had. His dilemma lay in the distance between himself and the young Claire, and in the singular, sad fact that he was already married. For the time being he decided he would content himself with reports of Claire's progress. The girl certainly wasn't going anywhere and neither was Rose; whereas he would make a trip to Sydney in the New Year.

‘How was the shoot?' Jeremy asked as he passed Sarah a bunch of Australian natives and kissed her cheek. He moved to the small kitchen in her apartment and, pulling out a glass, helped himself to a beer, draining it immediately. ‘What a day.' Loosening his tie, he undid the top button of his starched collar. His cheeks, slightly flushed, contrasted sharply with the whiteness of his shirt. ‘Ah, Miss Gordon is unhappy.'

Dropping the flowers into the kitchen rubbish bin, Sarah pushed the banksia and wattle roughly inside until the flip lid slid back into place. Jeremy leaned against the laminate bench, a stunned look on his face. ‘Hey, what did you do that for?'

‘You're drunk,' Sarah said tightly, taking in his red face and slightly dishevelled appearance that was so at odds with his usually pristine appearance.

Jeremy sighed. ‘There is a difference between being drunk and absolutely buggered, Sarah.' He went to the bin and retrieved the flowers. Turning on the tap over the kitchen sink, he filled the tub
with water and plonked the flowers into the cool liquid. ‘I brought these back from the mountains for you. If you had bothered to return my telephone calls you would have had them before this.'

And what exactly was she meant to say to him? Sarah wondered. Gee, come right over, I've missed you and by the way how did the weekend go in the double bedroom at the B&B with your mystery guest?

‘You know I tried to call you early Sunday morning,' Jeremy wiped his hands dry on a tea towel. ‘I thought you could have come up for the day.'

‘I was busy.' It was easier to lie, Sarah decided, than reveal that she had sat and listened to his voice on her answering machine before deleting his message.

‘Come on, Sarah, this isn't like you. What's the matter?' he asked, sitting on the couch beside her.

‘How was your weekend?' She waited for a reaction, but the expression on his face never altered.

‘You weren't the only one doing the telephoning. I rang you. Well I tried to. I was going to come up on Saturday after my shoot finished early; that is until I learned that you were already ensconced up there in the nice private bedroom with a
friend
.'

Jeremy laughed. ‘What?'

Sarah took a deep breath. ‘It's Julie Miller, isn't it?'

‘What are you talking about?' Jeremy looked at her, confusion obvious, then he sank back into the couch. Slowly, he straightened his tie, shaking his head thoughtfully. ‘I have always loved you. Ever since the day I met you at the gallery. You were like a broken flower, fragile and closed off from everyone around you. But I waited and I persevered. Here's a girl I could love for the rest of my life, I told myself. Here's a woman worth fighting for and helping. And I did help you, didn't I, Sarah?'

‘Yes,' Sarah replied softly, confused by the sudden change in topic.

‘When you cried for your brother, I held you. When you deliberated over your mother's accusations regarding your part in Cameron's accident, I listened.'

‘I know.' Sarah didn't want to hear any of this.

‘Your family didn't see what they did to you, what you did to yourself through your tortured memories and then I met your mother and I prayed to God that you weren't going to end up like her in the years ahead, disorientated and out of touch with reality.'

Tears now spilled down her cheeks. ‘I won't be like her. I won't.'

‘And here you are accusing me of having an affair with Julie. Yes, we shared a room for a day. Yes, I could have slept with her. Shit, part of me wanted to sleep with her to get you out of my mind. But I didn't. Julie was only there on Saturday. We discussed business and then she drove back to Sydney. Before dark.'

‘Oh.'

He lifted his hand to stop her from speaking. ‘I've told you that Julie is just a friend; a very old friend, but you still don't trust me, or want to trust me or perhaps you just don't love me enough.' He walked towards the door of the apartment. ‘Look I've had a big day. I signed on two new clients,' he smiled briefly at the thought. ‘I would have liked to have shared that with you, Sarah.'

Sarah walked towards him as he opened the door. ‘Don't go, Jeremy.'

‘I've an early start. But we should try and get together over the weekend, I think we need to sit down and –'

‘I can't,' Sarah bit her lower lip. ‘I'm going away for the weekend.' She hurried on, ‘Grandfather asked me if –'

He shook his head, ‘So you're going back to Wangallon again.' Sadness ringed his eyes. ‘The morning we drove through the boundary gate when we arrived for Christmas, I saw that look in your eyes. You've never looked at me the way your eyes caressed
that bloody bit of dirt, Sarah. And then I saw it again the morning Anthony arrived during the flood.'

‘Jeremy you're wrong. He's a friend.'

‘And it's the same look when he calls you on the telephone. Maybe you can't accept your feelings, like you can't accept your life had to change after your brother died.'

‘How can you say that?'

‘You know, I figured that if I never doubted your commitment you would stay with me. Well this time I want you to go back to Wangallon. I dare you to go and face your feelings. Decide whether you love him or me and then put one of us out of our misery.'

The apartment door slammed.

Sarah, her eyes fixed on the closed door, crumpled to the floor. Did she love Anthony? How could she when everything Jeremy spoke of was true? Jeremy was the one who had cared for her, talked through her problems, reminding her constantly that she was a good person, both capable and deserving of a happy life. Gathering herself together she poured herself a glass of merlot and sat on the kitchen bench. Jeremy was right about one thing though. She loved Wangallon and regardless of whether Jeremy wanted her to return to Wangallon or not, she was going home. She had made her grandfather a promise.