The Bark Cutters (51 page)

‘After Cameron died, Wangallon ceased to be home. It was a place that had taken my family's life. Maybe the knowledge of leaving another boy in Scotland added to my misery. My son, my mother Angie, even Sue, Wangallon took them all in some shape or form. I couldn't bring myself to stay and the flood provided the excuse I needed to escape.' Ronald met his daughter's eyes. ‘I wanted to protect you as well, because for me the dream of continuing at Wangallon died with your brother.'

Sarah touched her father's hand. ‘Dad, no-one is to blame for those deaths. Come home, Dad. We need you. Come home.'

‘I don't think your mother will be coming back. She's too ill now. It would be too difficult.'

‘I know it's hard, Dad, but it is best this way. The hospice she's in is very good.'

‘Maybe we could find something a little closer to the water though. She loves the water, Sarah.'

Sarah took her father's hand, clasping it firmly in hers. Reaching out she felt the encompassing warmth of Anthony's strong grip. Sarah thought of the land about her, of those who had gone before and the length of time it had taken for her to finally realise her place in the world.

Angus held back a chuckle. Tiptoeing from behind the hall doorway until he was out of earshot, he poured himself a good shot of whiskey. At Sarah's bedroom he opened the drawer on his father's old chest and dropped a silk bag into it. Inside was a gold fob watch and chain he'd taken from his father's things upon his death. It was a beautiful piece with the surname Abishari engraved on it. Angus figured the Afghan merchant must have lost it to his father in a card game of some sort. Anyway, he knew Sarah would look after it.

Through the gauze of the verandah he watched willy-wagtails and topknot pigeons darting through the soft rain. The lawn, for months brittle dry, was now green and lush. It was done, he thought with satisfaction, as he positioned himself in one of the old squatter's chairs. Sarah and Anthony would marry and Wangallon would have an heir. He missed the boy, of course. Cameron was a fine lad, but he figured some things worked out the way they did for a reason.

Taking a good mouthful of whiskey, he swirled the contents
appreciatively around the inside of his mouth. The next sip didn't sit so well on his empty stomach and he tossed the contents through the gauze, the liquid forming glittering squares in the weak sunlight. If he had one regret it was the murder of Tom Conroy, Cameron's real father. Tom had been a mate. Yes, he had thought him a bit too smooth for the bush, but he had been a damn good wool buyer and honest as the day was long. That was the problem. Once Tom discovered he sired a son, he would have done the right thing and Angus could not bear the thought of his son's cuckolding being known. Then there were his succession plans, as well as the risk of Tom meddling with Wangallon's management. No, the public knowledge of a bastard heir would have destroyed their reputation. So he had organised his death: a simple stabbing, motive theft. Easy, the problem had gone. Sue, however, never seemed to get over it.

With the coming of the late afternoon, the rain was increasing in intensity. Across the miles of flat country, through the waving grasses, Angus could smell the tang of leaves fragrantly weeping the scent of eucalyptus. At the end of the garden, through the fence, wallabies were chewing tender stems, their small tongues seeking sweet juices. A fruit bat sailed through the air, landing suddenly as a fox crossed the wet lawn, its cloying pungence wafting to where Angus rested. Out in the garden he watched two female figures strolling amongst the trees and flowers.
Rose
, he called,
Angie, come in, you'll get wet
.

Finally as heavy rain began to fall, Angus felt himself drift away. It was a strange detached feeling, as if he were hovering above himself in the gathering twilight. The body below him took a long drawn-out breath and with that final exhalation he was sure he heard the heart of Wangallon sigh.

The wind lifted the day's dust from the old wilga and belah trees as a flock of white cockatoos screeched overhead. They stacked the campfire high. One of the men had trapped some rabbits for dinner and he whistled to himself as he skinned them deftly, the shiny blade splitting the carcasses with ease. As darkness descended, Hamish ate his rabbit hungrily, chewing the marrow from the bones with expert efficiency. Beside him his brother Charlie, unmarked by his mining accident, hummed contentedly, mesmerised by his nephew Luke, whose nimble fingers plaited a rawhide whip from kangaroo pelts, his old one nearly worn out from his numerous droving jobs.

Cameron called out into the rim of darkness surrounding the group, smiling delightedly as a deep voice answered. They had been waiting a long time for Angus. Accepting a chunk of rabbit meat, Angus sucked at the sweet flesh, after a time whistling into the darkness. The animal lumbered through the ring of men, snuffling at the rabbit bones as he went. In the glare from the campfire,
a large jagged scar, a war wound from some ancient battle, was visible in the thinning hair. Finally Shrapnel sat down beside his master.

Thanks to my agent Tara Wynne and Vicki Guteirrez, my publisher Larissa Edwards, editor Chris Kunz and the welcoming team at Random House. It is a wonderful thing to be believed in. There have been many drafts of
The Bark Cutters
. Along the way I have received invaluable support from my family and friends, in particular my sister, Brooke, and my parents, Marita and Ian. A special mention to Catherine Hammond for her early advice and Professor Wally Woods at Central Queensland University (MLitt programme) for his encouragement in my writing endeavours. Thank you also to Bev Cranny at The Nook & Cranny Bookshop (Goondiwindi, QLD) for her enthusiasm and love of books, Margaret Adams for advice on the Kamilaroy tribe and David for understanding a writer's life.

In the course of her career Nicole Alexander has worked both in Australia and Singapore in financial services, fashion, corporate publishing and agriculture. A fourth generation grazier Nicole returned to her family's property in the late 1990s. She is currently the business manager there and has a hands-on-role in the running of the property. Nicole has a Master of Letters in creative writing and her poetry, travel and genealogy articles have been published in Australia, America and Singapore.

 

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www.nicolealexander.com.au