The Bark Cutters (32 page)

The plane began its descent. Sarah looked down at the neat paddocks devoid of movement. Stock hung in groups, shaded by trees, grazing on remnants of fodder. An occasional vehicle crossed the land, heaving balls of dust into the air. The fields closer to town showed small irrigation systems watering a variety of crops, the slight difference in colour providing a vibrant contrast to the brown desolation.

The Dash 8 aircraft and its thirty or so passengers landed with a shudder and the plane taxied slowly across to the small terminal building. There were only six flights a week making Friday's early morning flight very popular, especially the day before a picnic race meeting.

‘Hello, Sarah.'

‘Hi,' Sarah replied quietly to Anthony's welcoming voice as she walked into the one-room terminal. He looked good, tanned and lean. ‘Where's Grandfather?' she blurted out, aware that her suddenly heightened senses made her guiltily aware of Jeremy's recent accusations.

The dark eyes dulled before narrowing into a frown. Swinging Sarah's travel bag over his shoulder, Anthony strode off in the direction of his utility. He walked quickly. ‘Well, it
is
a 300-kilometre round trip, Sarah,' Anthony said over his shoulder. ‘It's a fair drive when he has to come in again tomorrow for the races.'

At the vehicle her bag bounced onto an old mattress in the tray as the driver's side door slammed. Instantly Sarah wished she had not been so damn unfriendly. She was, after all, pleased to see him. It was just that she was torn between Jeremy and the obvious distress she had caused him and the hum of nervous anticipation she was currently experiencing.

‘Sorry.' Sarah's own door closed as the vehicle accelerated out of the car park. ‘I just didn't expect to see you.'

‘So I gathered.' His fingers clenched the steering wheel as the utility sped in and out of a dismal flow of traffic. Within seconds they were parking, and Anthony left Sarah to follow him into an antique shop. ‘Just have to pick something up.'

Inside the shop Sarah scanned the interior. Coffee tables and sideboards bustled for room alongside ornately carved chairs, lamps and an assortment of silver, crystal and porcelain all displayed in tall glass cabinets. Anthony, in quiet discussion with an elfish-looking gentleman with a contagious smile, ran his hand along the edge of a small dining room table that appeared to be oak, although it was in the process of being wrapped securely for transportation.

‘Nice piece,' she commented, running her fingers along the smooth surface. ‘It's yours?' She vaguely recalled a pair of high-backed Australiana chairs and matching hardwood sideboard that his mother had sent up to him along with some other items during his first year at Wangallon.

‘Yes, it's mine.' He smiled easily, locking his eyes onto hers until she smiled back.

‘Good taste, love. That's what your young man has. From the moment he walked into my shop I thought to myself, now here's a bushie who is used to more than the average. On all counts, if you don't mind me saying,' the shop owner finished with an exaggerated wink.

‘Well, I'll let you finish packing.' Outside the shop Sarah dawdled in the main street. She loved the fact that he'd wanted to make Wangallon his home from the beginning. He'd been a jackeroo, bunking down with the other staff in the men's huts, occasionally having to share his room during branding and shearing when extra men came in to help during the busy times on the property, however he still had his precious bits of furniture that made the place home to him and he always accepted the contractors' taunts about his
stuff
with a smile. In his progression from jackeroo to station hand, little had changed, but now he was the manager of Wangallon. Sarah thought of the lovely oak table inside and of her old home, West Wangallon, which was now his home. It was almost as if Anthony was living the life meant for her brother.

Thirty minutes later the table was resting top down on the mattress, the extension leaves secured inside the frame. The vehicle moved at a steady pace over the bitumen. Leaving the town they slowed to pass through a herd of cattle, Anthony lifting his hand in salute to the three drovers travelling steadily behind their charges. The cattle were road-weary, their bones protruding at sharp angles through a thin covering of skin. Some of them looked ready to drop at any moment.

‘There's another two thousand head only a day's walk behind them. They'll lose a few, but they're better off picking up what feed they can here than dying up north where they've come from.' Anthony caught the expression of interest in Sarah's eyes and settled a little more comfortably in the driver's seat. ‘You'll like your new horse, she's a beauty.'

‘I can't wait to ride her.'

When they arrived at West Wangallon, Sarah and Anthony carried the table up the cement path, resting it near the back door. Sarah was loath to enter after managing to stay away for so long, but how could she not help Anthony without feeling foolish?

‘Better call someone to help,' she suggested.

‘Why? It's not too heavy for you, is it? All the extension leaves are out of it and …'

He stopped, as he realised his mistake. ‘I'm sorry, Sarah.'

‘I suppose it shouldn't bother me.'

‘Look, it's my fault. I forgot you haven't been inside since –' Anthony stopped. None of the Gordons had lived there after the flood, and Sarah had not been back since the day her father had left. At the other end of the table, Sarah took hold and gestured to him to keep going. This was not the time to be sentimental, she chided herself as she gritted her teeth.

They manoeuvred the table through the kitchen and living room, only just managing not to bump fingers and arms on doorways.

‘What do you think of the place?' Anthony asked when they had finally placed the table in the dining room.

‘It's so different.' Gone were the memories of that last Christmas. The dining room was a golden yellow. A gilt mirror hung over a low old-fashioned sideboard empty except for a tray holding two bottles of rum. The table, taking pride of place, was surrounded by six tapestry-backed chairs.

‘Your grandfather gave me the chairs. They're fairly ancient.'

A colourful rug lay over the polished floorboards. Old black-and-white portraits covered a wall.

The entire house, altered substantially, exuded a warm friendly feeling. They moved from the dining room to the lounge room, where Sarah studied the suitably sombre early-twentieth-century portraits.

‘Grandparents in here and parents in the dining room. Keeps everyone happy,' Anthony offered.

‘The perfect family?' Sarah asked, raising her eyebrows at a series of framed movie posters depicting western actors from the fifties.

‘Exactly,' Anthony agreed chuckling. ‘I'll make us some tea.'

After boiling the kettle, Anthony and Sarah moved into Sarah's old bedroom, which had been transformed into the sitting room. Anthony passed white tea and a shortbread biscuit from the packet and settled back in his chair. ‘Sorry, didn't have time to bake.'

‘My favourite,' Sarah grinned taking a bite of the crumbling mixture. Breakfast, consisting of thick bitter coffee and what appeared to be an excuse for a muffin on the plane, had left her ravenous.

‘What do you think?'

‘It's good.' Similar to her room at Wangallon, the view from her old bedroom took in the entire garden, except her mother's beloved flowers no longer existed. Only the mature trees survived, the grass thinning out towards the rear of the garden. Through the windows the midday sun warmed the soft-coloured room. Dried bulrushes rested in a large terracotta urn in one corner, a smaller dining table and TV filled another. Rows of books lined one wall, while the two comfy armchairs they were seated in were upholstered in kangaroo hide, while a cattle hide sat squarely in the middle of the room. A particularly fine fox pelt mounted directly on the wall opposite caught the sun's rays. She walked towards it.

‘Cameron tanned this, didn't he?' Sarah asked.

‘Yes.'

Touching the silken pelt, Sarah brushed the fur upwards. ‘I miss him,' she said simply. It was years since they had spoken of him. ‘You and he were great friends.' If she closed her eyes, she could see Cameron lounging in the chair next to Anthony's,
staring with amusement from beneath ruffled light brown hair, a lopsided grin widening into a full-throated laugh.

‘Yes, we were.' Anthony put his cup down and rubbed his hands on his jeans. ‘The three of us were once, Sarah. Why do you keep staying away? Why don't you come home?'

The question hit her like a bucket of water, dissolving the image of her brother instantly. Sarah tried to answer, the words dissipating even as they formed.

‘You can't let go of Wangallon as I couldn't let go that last day by the creek when I asked you to stay. It took me a while, but eventually I understood your decision. But now it's different. I think you're still deciding.'

‘Deciding?' Sarah heard him get quietly to his feet, and immediately she thought of the squeaky floorboard he would hit if he made his way across to her. She glanced at the remains of her mother's garden through the windows, shuffling her feet on the boards beneath.

Anthony crossed the floor between them to stand slightly to one side of her. Her thick hair fell back over her shoulder to reveal well known contours. He watched a small vein throb beneath the soft skin of her temple, studied the high cheek bones. Tentatively he lifted his hand.

Sarah swallowed, the noise sounding inordinately loud. Why did she feel so troubled about giving him an answer?

Anthony stared at the soft skin and lowered his arm. He could sense her nervousness.

‘I have to go.' Turning, Sarah brushed past him, the momentary closeness causing her to take a deep intake of breath. It was then that he kissed her, his hands firmly grasping her shoulders. Sarah didn't respond immediately, but she soon found herself lifting her hands to the side of his face, her fingers tracing the outline of the scar that had entranced her since her teenage years. His kiss was deep and pure and Sarah let herself be engulfed by a surge of
passion. Then Jeremy's image came to her and she was untangling herself from Anthony's embrace and racing through the rooms, past her brother's old bedroom and outside into the safety of fresh air and space.

Back at the relative safety of Wangallon homestead, Sarah sat on the end of the path, boots scraping the dirt, watching numerous ants march relentlessly back and forth. Three fought fearlessly with an upturned beetle, small legs clambering over thrashing parts, before once more joining their comrades. She followed the ants' progress, likening them to herself, Anthony and Jeremy, wondering who was chasing who. Noises of dogs and machinery dwindled with the rustle of brittle grasses.
Anthony
. He was part of the landscape of Wangallon, like the tall trees hanging thirstily over creek banks, a reminder of her youth, of Cameron. She had successfully managed to keep the past where it belonged – behind her – yet suddenly, irretrievably, it was altered and images from their shared times together were flooding her mind: the night at the stables, out riding, swimming in the creek. And with the memories came those of Cameron. Sarah began to sob quietly.

Her tears splattered on the cement path. Wiping her eyes, she rubbed her nose on her shirt sleeve. What was she doing? Did she really want to open herself up to allow something to happen with Anthony? She didn't really know how she felt about him and she had already decided how difficult it would be to return to Wangallon. And what if things didn't work out with Anthony and he resigned? What would happen to Wangallon then? Sniffing loudly, Sarah wiped her cheeks with determination. She was being a melodramatic fool. At least with Jeremy she always knew where she stood. Most importantly, he couldn't break her heart, not like her brother did with his death and not like Anthony might if she allowed herself to get close to him. In truth, she couldn't bear any more loss.

That night while her grandfather showered, Sarah dialled Jeremy's number. ‘Jeremy, it's me.' She could imagine him sitting on his pristine white sofa refusing to pick up the telephone.

‘I just wanted to say that I'm sorry. I've made a real mess of things. Anyway, I promised Grandfather that I'd go to the picnic races with him tomorrow, that's why I'm back up here. I'll be staying at The Overlander motel tomorrow night if you need to call me. Thanks. Bye.'

‘Goddamn that jockey, he is about as useful as tits on a bull. Sorry, girl.'

‘Don't apologise, Grandfather, I think you're probably right.' They smiled at each other, tearing up their third consecutive losing betting tickets. Behind them the horses entered the enclosure, the place-getters lining up to receive congratulations from owners and trainers to the cheers of the few lucky onlookers.

‘Bad luck, Angus,' a jovial-faced man called out.