The Bark Cutters (48 page)

Corker gathered up the mugs, teapot and empty sandwich plate. With a hairy arm he brushed the plate clean before wedging it securely under his armpit, long hairs bushing out from between flesh, singlet and crockery. He'd had enough of their rissole sniggers. One day he
would
make them under his arm. ‘Eat it all though, don't you? Bloody ingrates!'

‘Food's shit, boss,' a young fella called.

Anthony chuckled, ‘Well, get rid of the toaster then the toast won't be burnt.'

‘Hmp!' Corker rubbed a bulging belly unable to be concealed by his faded blue singlet or bum-hugging jeans.

‘Who called the cook a bastard? Who called the bastard a cook?'

‘Righto,' Anthony called. It was all too easy to get Corker riled up. ‘Ignore them, Corker. This lot wouldn't know what good food was.' His efforts received a weak smile, but at least the beginnings of any tension were abated and at his word the men were on their feet, moving back to the board.

Sarah, sitting on a wool bail removed from the men, caught his attention. Quiet for the duration of their allotted half-hour break, she remained sitting, her legs crossed, both hands gripping her tin mug. At least one of Corker's egg sandwiches had been consumed. He was pleased her appetite was better. She certainly hadn't looked that great the first day back at Wangallon.

‘Anthony, can I talk to you at lunch?'

‘Sure, Sarah. See you at the house.'

Sarah was sitting at the kitchen table, exhausted from another long morning standing at the wool table, when the Toyota pulled up. Luckily her father was due tomorrow night after he'd visited Angus in hospital. It would be good to see him.

‘How's it going?' Anthony strolled into Wangallon homestead as if he had lived there all his life and opening a kitchen cupboard, selected a tall glass before pouring some water and sitting down. ‘Lunch for one, hey?'

She pushed across a corned beef sandwich and they ate silently. She had been waiting for him to check on her work for the last three days, but he had barely shown any interest in her job. The
task and responsibility of examining the staple, checking length and fineness and placing each fleece in the matching appropriate pile was damn difficult. Sure Pete, the head classer double-checked, but she still felt uneasy.

‘Everything going okay?' Anthony said good-naturedly, picking at a piece of fat caught between his teeth.

‘This clip obviously isn't very important to you,' she countered. ‘Otherwise you would be checking on me. After all, I'm not qualified. There's no two-year technical course certificate in wool-classing hanging on my wall.'

‘Didn't know you were a fan of corned meat, tastes good though.' Anthony finished his share in two bites.

‘It takes years of growing sheep, of knowing your flock. You have to be born and bred to it. If there's no consistency in every bail, how can we expect a good price come sale time?'

Anthony poured another glass of water for himself, drank thirstily, and glanced at the clock on the wall. There was only an hour for lunch and the woman was doing a damn good job of ruining his break, belittling her own abilities and pissing him off.

‘I know you understand wool and the characteristics the family has been trying to breed into it for the last hundred and thirty years or so. You're a Gordon, Sarah, and the Gordons have been here from the very beginning. I can't think of anyone better qualified to be in the shed. So live up to your name, stop bloody whinging, take some responsibility and do it.'

Sarah opened her mouth.

‘Besides, as I'm the one who's leaving, you are going to have to become a lot more involved in the day-to-day running of the place. You'll have to be capable of asserting authority so the new manager treats you with respect, and ensure you know enough so the men on the place know you're not only a worthy successor but a contributing team member as well.'

She waited for the flinty taste of anger to settle in her mouth, for her fists to clench. Instead, the opposite occurred. She finished her sandwich, cleared the plates, and told Anthony she would be back at the shed on time. After the back door slammed shut she considered his words. It was a revelation to realise that Anthony had every faith in her and he was leaving. At the thought she burst into tears.

Through the carriage window, wavering grasses heralded a westerly wind. Here and there clumps of tall trees almost obscured Claire's view while a white haze blanketed the countryside in the late afternoon heat. Dabbing at the ceaseless moisture on her brow, Claire slumped back in the cracked leather upholstery, her slight figure moving in time with the rutted dirt track. Wet weather two days prior was the cause of their delay. Instead of arriving in the relative cool of late mid-morning as planned, she would appear at Wangallon exhausted and dishevelled. If first impressions counted for anything, Claire doubted her ability to create even a modicum of interest. Suddenly the carriage shuddered to a stop. Momentarily startled by the absence of movement, Claire found herself looking out at a large homestead.

The long white-washed building was low set with a deep verandah. Three wide steps invited weary travellers to the cool expanse of timbered boards, a scattering of chairs and occasional tables. A porcelain jug and squat glasses sat invitingly on a round
table and Claire could almost taste the cooling liquid. A covered walkway at one end of the building led to another small house; by the billowing smoke emanating from its chimney, Claire assumed this to be the cookhouse. An attempt at establishing lawn had been made to average effect. Irregular shapes of olive green were interspersed with tufts of brown and patches of dirt, while a long hitching post spoke of horses, unknown journeys and great distances.

A wiry, anaemic-looking man approached and assisted her from the carriage.

‘Miss Whittaker, I'm Jasperson, welcome.'

The Englishman swiftly removed her trunk from where it was tightly secured to the rear of the carriage and dropped it unceremoniously in the dirt. Claire felt like a sailor as her body familiarised itself with a stationary position.

‘Thank you,' she answered. Her politeness unacknowledged, she tugged at her skirt and smoothed the jacket of her travelling gown as Jasperson walked away. ‘Now what?' she murmured as the carriage moved off in a scattering of tiny stones and a whirl of dirt. A few seconds later she was alone. Her short-brimmed straw hat did little to shade her face from the late afternoon heat and perspiration had begun to saturate her stockings. This was certainly not the welcome she expected. Her part at least had been accomplished. In agreeing to remain in Sydney after her father's passing this past year she had studied diligently, become most proficient on the piano and learned the art of good housekeeping from an ever-hovering Mrs Cole. In return she expected to be greeted cordially, if not enthusiastically. Especially after three days travelling.

‘Are you going to stand out in the heat all afternoon?'

A silhouette, tall and lean, appeared from within the cooling recesses of the verandah. As if materialising from another world he stepped out from the shadows of his domain.

‘Mr Gordon?' Claire enquired. ‘Mr Hamish Gordon?'

He wore pale beige trousers, a white shirt and waistcoat and a jacket clearly cut by a notable tailor. Behind him two Aboriginal girls appeared. They walked towards her, and picking up her trunk, carried it back to the house.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Gordon.' With a deep breath of firm intent Claire walked directly across to where he waited at the top of the three wide stairs. ‘It has been a long trip.' She saw his eyes now. Remarkable violet eyes lit by pleasure and shadowed by lines of labour. Claire could smell cigar smoke and musk and the earthy scent of animals.

‘I never intended for us to meet,' he said without softening his expression.

She took his offered hand, wondering at the response expected of her. His grip was firm, yet a tinge of wary expectation shadowed the strong contours of his face. ‘It is lucky then that I have the characteristic of stubbornness,' she replied, not prepared to be considered weak of mind. Claire took both his hands in hers. ‘Thank you for all that you did for my father and for me. Such generosity I'm sure is rarely to be found.'

‘It gave me great pleasure.'

‘And I believe that you did intend us to meet, Mr Gordon; at some stage and after a suitable period.' Although she doubted his widower status was the reason. It was more likely, she decided, taking in the strength of his face and the proud stance, a question of control. A characteristic that she had, through her own investigations, managed to wrench out of his hands and into her own. She could tell he was amused by her and that, Claire decided, was as good as any place to start. She wanted Hamish Gordon to grow acquainted with her as a person, not as a distant object of interest. She wanted him to let her be free, without expectation or desire.

‘Welcome to Wangallon.'

At his words the sun dipped to the horizon, lacing the countryside in red and yellow. The breeze dropped and then directly opposite her, in a large gum tree, an owl called once, twice as if announcing his presence. She could feel it now, the warm welcoming breath of the heart of this country, of his heart. And another more poignant feeling, relief.

‘You must be tired.'

Claire removed her straw hat, shaking her black hair free of the day's grime as she breathed in the remarkable beauty of her new surroundings. ‘Not anymore.'

The day was slipping over the edge of Wangallon's horizon. Sarah almost expected to hear the long sigh of the earth as she waited for rest. The track she followed was almost indistinguishable from the grassless dirt spreading many kilometres in all directions and for a moment she was pleased Angus couldn't see the destruction caused by the drought. The rising wind carried the sounds of sheep crying across the paddocks, calling for the early-born lambs separated from their mothers during the day, while the smells from the woolshed, the acrid combination of urine and dung, mingled with the baked earth. Sarah found the odour comforting. It reminded her of the old days, before life got in the way of everything once hoped for.

By the time the sheltered clearing came into view, birds were already settled for the night, their feathers fluffed up warmly about their bodies. Only the wind followed Sarah's progress, lifting her hair, rustling the leaves about her. She stared at the headstones, at the ageing monuments appearing to guard each other. Whether
grouped together against the dark of night or cradling each other in the shadow of the sun they were, in their collective masonry, sentinels. Above her the sky darkened and the wind stilled as she breathed in the night air. If they could speak, she wondered if they would try to explain to her the cycle of continuity, as strong as the pull of the moon to the ocean.

The furthest headstones were darkening, their outlines beginning to merge in the gathering shadows. Rust-coloured leaves blew across the granite slab marking her brother's final resting place, as tears left salty trails across her cheeks. Sarah knew in her heart she couldn't leave him or this great expanse of country. Jeremy had been right.

The great guardians of the cemetery stirred about her. Immediately the breath of life, that intangible thread, the essence of what protected and nurtured her, threw its arms about her soul. She was home.

‘It's past nine o'clock.'

Ignoring Anthony waiting for her in the kitchen, Sarah wearily pushed past him to slump down in a chair. She was still trying to comprehend the decision so recently made and the ramifications it would have on everyone's lives. Rubbing tired eyes, she gradually noticed the old fuel stove crackling warmly and the smell of a beef stew wafting enticingly towards her. The tension eased a little from between her shoulder blades as she sipped from the glass of red wine that appeared before her, took the warm washcloth offered and obediently wiped her face and hands. The day's grime streaked the pale green material. Only then, when her body began to warm a little, did she notice that Anthony was showered and warmly dressed. The white of his shirt suited him, as did the heavy cable knit of his beige jumper. Placing the bowl of warmed
stew in front of her, he sat opposite. Sarah stared at him. The size of his hands intrigued her. They were like the bear paws of her father. She had always thought they were the hands of someone she could rely on.

‘I just went for a walk. Lost track of the time,' she said in answer to his gaze. She took a mouthful and chewed slowly, recalling Mrs Jamieson's recent words on the telephone. How the hell was she going to approach him with her news and, most importantly, open her heart to him? It was important to eat. As she took a mouthful of the stew, the flavour of pumpkin, potato and beans soothed her stomach, the tender meat and rich gravy warming her body.

Anthony uncrossed his legs to lean forward. Pale, tired, worn out, she looked all those things, but she also looked content. It was not a word he'd ever used in the same breath as Sarah Gordon; at least not for a very long time. Her violet eyes were shining and he admitted that he still found her beauty almost overwhelming. Immediately he chastised himself inwardly for being too hard on her. He thought of the two kisses shared in the four long years since Cameron's death and imagined his body next to hers, not one tiny space between them. He stared across the table at her. Maybe leaving was going to be harder than he realised, especially when after all this time there was a strong chance she was coming home.

Sarah felt him watching her. She could smell the faint scent of him in the warmth of the room. Finishing her meal, Sarah placed her plate on the sink and stared out the window into the night. ‘I don't want you to leave. It's not right.' The world outside was black, empty. His strong arms were reflected in the window. Little conjuring was required to remind herself of the faint hairs on his neck kissed golden brown by the sun, of his weather-streaked hair and the attractive face of a youth now grown striking with age. Suddenly it seemed unbelievable to her that she had been prepared to lose Anthony for Wangallon or Wangallon for
Anthony. She took a breath, steeling herself. There was another problem before her life could begin. Jim Macken.

‘I met someone in Scotland,' she found herself explaining, now desperate to tell him about Jim's existence. Only he would understand. Only he had known Cameron as she had, loved him as she had. He would share her sadness and joy. He would keep her secret until the time was right for Jim to learn about his family. ‘His name is Jim Macken and he's my half-brother.'

‘What?'

‘I know with everything that has gone on with this family and between us it seems surreal. But Dad had an affair over there. He's definitely my half-brother. This woman Mrs Jamieson wrote to Dad and told him about Jim,' her voice slowed.

‘Bloody hell. What a mess!' Anthony scratched his head. ‘It sure explains a lot of things.' But he wasn't sure if the news changed anything for him. ‘I'm glad for you, Sarah,' he smiled briefly, his dark eyes lighting up. It was time they discussed the crux of their problems, the damn conditions of the will, the reason for his leaving. ‘Sarah, I know how much you love this place. The will doesn't matter. Not anymore. You're the Gordon. You should be here.'

‘I know.'

The simplicity of her agreement after her years away came as a surprise to him. ‘This land means more to you than anything or anyone?' He thought of Jeremy. ‘More than anyone's love?'

Sarah wondered how to articulate something so inexplicable. Her grandfather told her once: ‘The land and the family are as one, you can't have one without the other.' Now Sarah believed it. ‘Grandfather talks of an all encompassing love for the land and the creatures on it; an understanding much like that of the Aborigines for the sacredness of the earth; a belief in life after death, of a guardianship, both of the living and the dead. The spirits roam the world that is Wangallon because their love is so deep
they cannot leave. That is why I believe Cameron is still with us. That is why I keep returning and why you have stayed. You too love Wangallon as I do, she's in your blood, but she is nothing without your careful management.'

‘She is nothing without you.' His arm encircled her waist as he pulled her towards him.

Sarah placed the palm of her free hand flat against his chest. Even with the layer of wool and cotton she sensed his skin, smooth and warm beneath her touch. ‘Wangallon has been between us. I believed you only wanted me for Wangallon's sake and …' Sarah closed her eyes, opened them, ‘I didn't realise how much I cared for you until you said you were leaving.'

Anthony shook his head in disbelief. ‘Sarah, you are wrong. Firstly, I only learned of the conditions of Angus's will on the day of his accident and secondly, I love Wangallon, but –' had he really been so good at self-deception? – ‘it could never equal my love for you.' Revealing the truth of how he felt fairly winded him.

‘What are you talking about?' Sarah whispered.

‘I've only known about Angus's intentions for ten days. I love you, Sarah. Sure I wanted to be a permanent fixture at Wangallon, I even had a screwball daydream about old Angus leaving me some of the property, but it was only a dream. Besides, I made a promise to your brother, a promise to look after you. But, your brother didn't need to hear those words from me, Sarah. He knew then that I loved you.'

‘You do?' She was looking up into his eyes. His hand cupped her face. His lips brushed her forehead, lingering momentarily next to the warmth of her skin.

‘Sorry, guess with your leaving and living in Sydney and then Jeremy …' He screwed his nose up.

Sarah pinched his forearm lightly. ‘Be nice.'

‘I pushed you out of my mind.'

‘Stay with me, Anthony: not because of Wangallon, not because of Grandfather or Cameron, but because I need you.'

Beneath her touch, his jaw quivered. ‘Say it. Say that you love me.'

‘I love you tonight,' she said quietly, squeezing his hand, ‘and tomorrow. Always.' Slowly they edged together until Sarah felt a soft pressure on her mouth as she leaned into his embrace.

Did he carry her to the bed? Anthony could only remember the soft murmurings of love as their lips touched again and again. Their embraces were gentle at first, her mouth soft and pliant beneath his, their hands tentatively resting on shoulders, waists and backs. When he could wait no longer he pulled at her jumper, lifting it high over her head, removing his own with a one-handed shrug that caused Sarah to giggle a little. He paused then, kissing her lightly before undoing the buttons of her shirt and twisting the material off her shoulders to run his hands down her bare arms. His own shirt was unbuttoned as her bra fell away and he shivered at the touch of her hands on his chest, even as her warm skin moved smoothly beneath his. He traced the fineness of her neck, the soft swell of her breasts and the delicate whorl of her ears, his head light and fuzzy as if he were a teenager again. He burrowed his chin into her shoulder, tipping her back onto the bed, the scent of sandalwood drifting from her hair, engulfing him as her legs entwined themselves about his body.

A late-rising moon shone brightly through foliage into a small corner of Sarah's bedroom. She watched the patterns dancing
prettily on her wall, hanging like Christmas baubles. They were like bright flashes of hope hanging down from heaven, their brilliant designs like streams of ribbons linking an old day to the hope of a new one. Linking loved ones past with those of the present. Starlight filtered through the trees of the garden to dance across her bare body, her fingers tracing the invisible painting on her skin, mimicking the flutter of light as it skipped deftly around, slowly gathering momentum as a midnight breeze shifted the leaves on the trees beyond. She had dreamed of that last day with her brother, but within the agony of remembrance now lay understanding, for Anthony had been there with her. It was Anthony who had wondered at their long absence, Anthony who had set out to track them and finally found them some two hours later. Sarah dimly recalled looking up from where her brother lay in her arms, at the shape of a galloping horseman.

It was as if Wangallon herself sent him to her, knowing how much he would be needed, knowing one day she would feel alone in the world. Both Wangallon and Sarah needed his love and protection. Perhaps the old ones had a hand in his employment as well, for although gone in body, their spirits melted into the heart of Wangallon. Rising from bed Sarah tiptoed across to her dresser. No thought entered her head, yet she found herself opening the top drawer, locating the aged gold bangle and slipping it onto her wrist. In the moonlight it looked like the most beautiful piece of jewellery she'd ever seen. For the first time in her many visits back to Wangallon she realised how peaceful the old homestead was. Everything was quiet. She climbed back into bed. Tomorrow she was going to take lots of photographs.