A Changing Land

‘She becomes my father’s cousin’s woman.’

He’d hoped that as Boxer’s son, Mungo would be the recipient of greater consideration. ‘I’m sorry.’

Mungo looked ahead to the homestead. ‘It is the second time in her life. She doesn’t go to him until the next full moon. Until then she works in the big house.’

Luke smiled. ‘The big house, eh?’

Mungo pointed at Luke’s shoulder. ‘It is good now, I think.’

Luke moved his arm up and down slowly. ‘I owe you.’

Mungo grinned. ‘I know.’ He flicked his reins, turning his horse away. ‘I must catch her between old men.’ With a swish of his hat Mungo galloped off, riding to a stand of box trees where a slight figure in a pale dress waited. The girl’s long black hair swayed as he helped her up to sit behind him on his horse. Luke lifted his hat in salute.Sarah took special care with the evening meal. The old family dining table, the scene of Gordon mealtimes since the 1860s, was set for two people. Solid silver cutlery shimmered amid the turn of the century English dinnerware and the cut crystal stemware. She moved the heavy silver candelabra to the opposite end of the table and gave the five-foot-long gleaming mahogany sideboard, with its glass decanters, silver salvers and ancient punch-bowl, a quick polish. Then she boiled potatoes, mashing them up with butter and full-cream milk, and added a teaspoon of honey to the freshly steamed carrots.

‘Smells great.’

Anthony’s hands gripped her shoulders as he kissed her lightly. He waited as she plated up the juicy T-bone steaks.

‘Want me to set the table?’

‘I thought we would eat inside.’ She sensed his frown, knowing his preference would be a can of beer in front of the television.

‘What’s the occasion?’ Anthony followed her into the dining room.

‘Do we need one?’ For a moment Sarah considered forgetting her concerns. ‘I helped Matt and Jack muster the steers this morning.’ She sat the plates on the table. Anthony pulled out her chair so she could sit. ‘You should have seen Bullet. He was the star, after Moses, of course.’

Anthony rolled his eyes. ‘Moses isn’t the wonder dog Matt likes to think he is.’

‘I met Toby Williams, our drover.’

‘Toby Williams? Now there’s a name I haven’t heard for a while.’ He poured red wine into both their glasses. ‘He’s a bit of a ladies’ man, but a damn good drover.’ He raised his glass. ‘To us.’

‘To us.’ Sarah took a large sip before cutting into her steak. ‘How do you know Toby?’

‘He’s been around for a while. Actually he did quite a lot of work for Angus in the seventies. There was talk of him being a descendent of someone who worked here on Wangallon in the early 1900s.’

‘How intriguing. I wonder who?’

‘Don’t know. I mentioned it to Angus one day and he told me not to listen to gossip. Anyway we’ll have to be on the lookout when we start mustering. Toby’s a bit of a tear-arse. You know, move the stock by the quickest route and if that happens to be through a few fences, tough. Angus always said he was a good stockman but reckoned you needed a clean-up crew after he’d been on a property and he’s a bugger for leaving gates open.’

Sarah took a sip of wine. ‘So where were you today?’

‘I had a few things happening early,’ Anthony said evasively. ‘I did come back for smoko and lunch. I wondered where you were? I thought there were enough men to handle that job.’

‘I like working outside, Anthony. I do it because I want to.’ She gave a weak smile, acknowledging how defensive she sounded. Swallowing her mouthful, her eyes came to rest on the formidable oil portrait of her great-grandfather, Hamish, hanging above the sideboard. He was depicted sitting, his fine dark suit and waistcoat failing to detract from his barrel chest and uncompromising violet-eyed gaze.

‘Fair enough. It’s just that we do have staff and I thought you had enough to do already, what with the book work and the garden.’

‘Actually I’m considering rehiring our old bookkeeper. I’ll still do the basic stuff.’

‘Why?’ Anthony took a sip of wine.

‘I would rather be outdoors.’

‘But your time is better utilised doing the things we don’t need to employ more staff for.’

Sarah sighed. ‘Then you take over the book work and the garden.’ He didn’t answer her. Great, she thought. Did she treat this as a stalemate or go ahead and rehire the bookkeeper? It struck her that perhaps there lay part of the problem. Had she been deferring to Anthony a little too much? ‘You’ve made some purchases,’ she began, uncomfortably aware that either way, she was about to ruin the evening.

Anthony nodded, his jaw finishing off a mouthful of tasty home-grown beef. ‘The panels of course and the new loading ramps we discussed. This is great.’

Sarah took a sip of wine, her eyes straying to her great-grandfather. ‘We didn’t.’

Anthony paused, his fork midway between his plate and mouth. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘We didn’t discuss the purchase of the panels, cattle truck or the ramps.’ Her fork mounded her serving of potato into an Everest-type sculpture.

‘Sorry, thought we did.’ His eyes met hers.

‘There’s nothing in the station diary either.’

Anthony put his knife and fork down and took a large sip of wine. ‘And?’

Sarah gave the mashed potato one final stroke before destroying its peak with the flat of her fork. ‘Well, I’ve noticed that you seem to be forgetting to tell me things, important things.’

‘They’re only panels and ramps, Sarah.’

‘Twenty-eight thousand dollars worth.’

‘So you’re concerned about the cost?’ He looked relieved. ‘I have been too. These couple of dry seasons have knocked us about a bit, although I’ve been doing the budget projections on a project that will pretty much pull Wangallon out of debt.’

‘What project?’ Sarah asked dismissively.

Anthony pushed his chair back, his hand straying to his partially drunk glass of wine. He sipped at the glass, his eyes peering at her from over the rim. ‘What’s bothering you?’

‘Don’t get angry. It’s just that you seem to be making major financial decisions without consulting me.’

‘I didn’t realise I had to.’

With precision-like movements Sarah cut a piece of steak, added a sliver of carrot and chewed thoughtfully. The last thing she needed was for Anthony to become defensive. ‘Even our weekly meetings have descended into you talking over the top of me.’

‘That’s not true. Actually I seem to recall you and Matt bonding over coffee and pretty much ignoring my suggestions.’ Anthony finished his wine and looked irritably at his congealing steak.

‘What’s the matter?’ she finally asked.

‘I don’t like my decisions being questioned like I’m the hired help.’

‘And I don’t like being left out of the loop when I’m the bloody Gordon.’

So there it was. The two things that neither of them had any control over. In Anthony’s mind part of him would forever be the jackeroo. ‘Maybe,’ she suggested slowly, ‘we could look at this a different way.’

‘What way? Would you like me to report to you every morning now that you suddenly have decided to become fully involved in the running of Wangallon?’

‘Bloody hell.’ Sarah banged the top of the table with her hand, before taking a deep breath. ‘Look, I don’t like change, okay? You of all people should know that. There has been too much of it in this family. I don’t want to move bedrooms or put awnings on the main verandah. I don’t want Matt Schipp disgruntled because you want him to be more than the head stockman and I don’t want things purchased or Wangallon’s management style changed without us discussing it first, jointly. I’m entitled to have an equal say in the management of Wangallon.’

‘Fair enough. It’s just that since Angus’s death you have holed yourself up in the office a fair bit. I thought you were happy with the way things were going.’

Sarah ignored the tight line of annoyance between his eyes. ‘It was important for me to get the feel for things. You know cashflow and budget forecasting. And yes, I’ve been really upset. Angus’s death is the like the passing of an era on Wangallon.’

Anthony rolled his eyes. ‘It’s nearly two years, Sarah, time to let go and move on.’ He cleared his throat. ‘We should be discussing the one thing you’ve been avoiding since Angus’s death. You can’t keep burying your head in the dirt. Jim Macken was left a thirty per cent share and –’

Sarah held her hand up. ‘I don’t want to talk about it. Not tonight.’

‘You can’t ignore it. Angus stipulated that Jim had two years to be informed of his will. And fair enough. They have a lot to come to terms with.’

‘They have a lot to come to terms with?’ Sarah’s knuckles whitened.

‘Sarah.’ Anthony leant forward in his chair. ‘All I’m saying is that the two years are nearly up. You have to prepare yourself. Jim Macken has rights.’

‘The illegitimate son of my father has rights?’

They ate silently for some minutes, although Sarah’s appetite was gone. ‘It was great to see Shelley so happy.’ Sarah knew her words sounded double-edged.

Anthony pushed his chair out abruptly and stood. ‘Yes, it was. Is that going to be us, Sarah? Two years is a hell of a long time to be engaged.’

Sarah closed her eyes briefly. ‘Aren’t you happy?’

‘It’s not the same.’

‘Nor is saying you’re willing to work as a team and then running off and buying expensive stuff without consulting me. There are other people involved in the running of this property. And in case you’ve forgotten, we actually do work to a budget.’

‘Personally I think the main problem here, Sarah, is that my surname isn’t Gordon and you want to make sure yours stays that way.’

How on earth did a conversation about his attitude morph into the personal? Sarah wondered.

‘Every argument we have invariably involves Wangallon and your heritage. You don’t have anything to prove, and I’m not trying to supersede you as far as the running of the property is concerned. How can I possibly do that when you are the fourth generation Gordon? Yes, I was left a thirty per cent share in the property as you were, but you forget; I’ve been here for eight years. During that time you moved to Sydney, became a photographer, fell in love with someone else and got engaged. It was your grandfather and me running Wangallon. Now after holing yourself up in the station office for months, you seem to have decided that I’ve taken on too much responsibility and you feel threatened by it. Well I know what has to be done and how to do it. So bloody well let me.’

He left her sitting alone with the remains of their unfinished dinner. Sarah glanced up at her great-grandfather, finishing her wine in two long sips. This was one argument that she couldn’t see being won by either of them. In a way she guessed she should have known this would happen. From Anthony’s viewpoint he was the one who had put in the hard yards on the place. Yet having both received a thirty per cent share in the property from her grandfather did not make them equal in his eyes, for in the end she was the surviving Gordon, both by name and birthright. She may well have been the second choice following her brother’s untimely death, but the mantle was hers.

Sarah cleared the dining room table. She stacked the plates and left them on the kitchen sink and then poured herself another glass of wine. Glass in hand, she walked outside and sat on the top step. The air was cold and crisp; the dome of the sky bright with stars. A slight scuffle announced Bullet as he struggled out from beneath the elevated rainwater tank. He stopped to look over his shoulder at Ferret, the one dog he appeared agreeable to sharing his special camping spot with, and ambled slowly down the cracked cement path towards her. He took up position on the cement step, his head in her lap. Sarah stroked him, examined the dried blood on his nose. He wriggled, wagged his tail, and then opened his eyes briefly to look up at her. He smelled of cow manure and dirt. She ruffled the dog’s back and leant against the door. Surely Anthony could see that for their relationship to work he had to let her be totally involved in the running of Wangallon. Even the knowledge that her father intended to leave his ten per cent share in the property to her on his passing didn’t really change things. The two of them had to live, love and work as a team. There was no other way, for things weren’t perfect and she had a feeling that time was running out. Anthony was right, although Sarah hated to admit it. Jim did have the right to claim a share in Wangallon. It’s just that no one knew if he planned to.Two days later Sarah was back in the office reconciling the previous month’s accounts. The mail would have been delivered by now and it would take Anthony only ten minutes or so to drive down to the boundary gate and collect it. The last few days had been difficult. Their conversation was still limited to only the very necessary. At least her mother’s condition had stabilised, although Sarah was unsure as to whether that was positive or negative. It was hard to feel much for a woman who’d barely tolerated her when she was growing up and then conveniently slipped into mental oblivion after her son’s death. Sarah almost succumbed to discussing her mother with Anthony, but they’d never been friendly and Sarah was still angry enough not to want to admit to needing his support. Instead she reconciled herself to a trip north at some future stage, if only for her father’s sake.

In the office Sarah flipped open the paddock book, her fingers running along each line as she checked the stock moved to various paddocks during the last two weeks. The steers had been moved to an oat crop, 6,000 ewes due to lamb in September had been walked 15 kilometres south to the black wattle paddocks, the bulls were on oats taking a well deserved holiday from their breeding duties and … Something was wrong. Sarah flipped back through the pages of the paddock book: Stumpy, Ridge, Back, Stud, Corner, all recent paddocks involved in stock movements. She checked and rechecked dates, mobs of sheep and herds of cattle. Boxer’s Plain was overstocked with both sheep and cattle. Well it was pretty clear which mob would be first out on the stock route. Boxer’s was prime grazing country. A good third of it was comprised of a flat expanse of grassland. That was the last block she wanted to see eaten out. It took too long for the grasses to regenerate when the rain finally did come.

Anthony returned with the mail, his signature slam of the back door reverberating through the house and causing Sarah to frown. He dropped the bundle on the edge of the oak desk and surprisingly gave her a light kiss on the top of her head. He was wearing a brown cable-knit jumper that made him look totally huggable.

‘How’s the office secretary going this morning?’

Sarah dearly wished that she didn’t have to wipe the smile off his face, especially when there hadn’t been one there for quite a few days. Pulling the rubber band from the rolled up newspapers and envelopes, she sorted through the pile quickly.

He leant against the desk. ‘I’m sorry we argued.’

Sarah passed him the rural newspaper and gave a shrug. ‘It’s inevitable, I guess. There will always be something happening that one of us doesn’t agree with.’

Anthony rolled the paper back into a long tube and began tapping one end of it into the palm of his hand. ‘And? I can tell by that matter-of-fact tone that something else is wrong.’

‘I don’t want us to have another argument …’

‘Which pretty much means we will.’ His smile vanished, replaced by a flat look of defence.

‘I’m worried about Boxer’s Plains. It’s overstocked. We’ll have to move some of them immediately. As it is we’ve probably lost carrying capacity over the winter. Those cattle will have to be the first to go on the route and –’ A raised palm made her halt mid-sentence.

‘I did mention at dinner the other night that I was working on a project that would assist in helping Wangallon recover from the drought.’

‘I sort of remember,’ although Sarah wondered what it had to do with overstocking.

‘Well, before you start running off about Boxer’s, perhaps you could wait a couple of days. I’ll have a better idea of the cost by then.’

‘Great, just great,’ Sarah repeated, shuffling the mail like a deck of cards as Anthony walked out. She didn’t like the sound of this cloak and dagger project, especially when he was sounding defensive. Here she was with sweaty palms and the dull thud of a coming headache and she was no further advanced. She looked disinterestedly at the mail. When the knock came at the back door, Matt Schipp’s voice boomed loudly across her thoughts.

He stood with his hat in his hands, one riding boot resting on the step. Ferret, having limped to his side, rested his head on his boot. Matt gave him a pat. ‘You’re a spoilt little bugger aren’t you? Up here at the big house.’

Matt looked as if he’d already worked more than a full day and although it was only nearing eleven in the morning, Sarah speculated that he probably almost had.

‘Are you free to come out with me, Sarah?’ His expression was unreadable, his voice quiet. ‘We have a problem.’Hamish trotted the gelding up the gravel drive of Wangallon Homestead, wheeling the horse to the right and left. He was a stubborn animal. Even after castration and months of continuous riding, the horse chewed disconsolately on the bit and would move to a gallop as soon as the reins were loosened. At the paling gateway Hamish turned the animal back towards the direction of the house, fighting the gelding’s inclination to break for the grassland beyond. The horse pawed the ground and reared on its hind legs, whinnying in annoyance. With one gloved hand on the reins, Hamish dug his knees into the animal’s flanks and struck the horse on its rump with a short riding crop. ‘You damn recalcitrant.’ Immediately the gelding yielded, trotting almost amiably back towards the house where Angus waited.

‘Up you get.’

Angus did as his father bid and, with a stirrup in the form of his father’s hands, was hoisted atop his new horse. He grabbed the reins tightly, pulled his knees in towards the gelding’s flanks and waited for directions.

‘Well then,’ Hamish gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head as the gelding’s nostrils flared, ‘you’ve been complaining for days since you learnt he’s to be yours. Let’s see if you can handle him.’

Angus flicked the reins and the horse moved forward with an unsteady jolt. He grinned at his father, sat his bum squarely in the saddle and dug his heels in. The gelding snorted and pigrooted across the width of the gravel drive, and Angus was launched up into the air to land solidly on his backside.

‘Again,’ Hamish commanded, ignoring the boy’s look of wounded pride. ‘Think about what you did wrong.’

Angus climbed back into the saddle with his father’s assistance and flicked the reins. The gelding stood stubbornly still.

‘Oh do be careful, Angus.’ Claire watched from the verandah, her quilting dangling from her fingers.

Hamish held his right hand up for silence. Angus squeezed his knees against the gelding and was rewarded with a gentle trot. The boy was endowed with a good seat, Hamish noted, and a straight back without a hint of a slouch. Boy and horse began to trot around the perimeter of the garden. Hamish watched as his son relaxed into his mount’s gait, the reins drooping, a barely perceptible slouch appearing in his lower back. Cupping his hands behind his back, Hamish readied for his son to receive another grounding. As if on cue Angus dropped one hand free of the reins in imitation of his father, dug his heels in and was quickly launched over the horse’s head, his arms flailing in the wind. He landed with a thud to sprawl at the base of a bougainvillea hedge. The gelding snorted and kicked out its back legs before calming.

Claire ran down the steps of the verandah, clutching at her skirt. Hamish barred her path.

‘He is not a child, Claire, and you are not his father. Please tend to your domain and I will tend to mine.’

Claire frowned in annoyance and looked to where her young son walked gamely across to the gelding. He led the horse to the paling fence, climbed up on it and half-jumped half-pulled himself into the saddle. The horse immediately bucked him off. Claire shook her head at her son’s determination. Angus brushed the dirt from his hands and approached the gelding once more.

‘He is as stubborn as his father,’ Claire announced, as Angus led the horse back to where his parents waited.

Passing the reins to his father, Angus positioned himself to be helped once more. This time the gelding didn’t even allow his young rider to be seated. Hamish extended his hand and pulled his son up off the ground. ‘We’ll try in the yards tomorrow, Angus.’ The boy’s cheek was grazed and a layer of dirt and grass clung to his clothing. ‘Both hands on the reins at all times, no sudden movements, heels in. And keep those knees of yours gripped against his flanks. Lastly, make friends with him,’ Hamish instructed.

Angus patted the gelding between the ears. ‘He’s quiet enough now, Father.’

Father and son discussed the gelding’s merits standing side by side, their hands clasped behind their backs. Hamish could only imagine how the boy’s backside felt. By comparison he knew exactly his wife’s temperament, her feet managing to make an inordinately loud noise on the verandah.

‘Wetherly is dining with us on the 27th,’ he called over his shoulder. Claire halted on the doorstep, straightened her shoulders and then, lifting her skirts, walked softly indoors.‘So then you managed to find your way back,’ Hamish said between puffs of tobacco as Luke appeared around the corner of the homestead.

Luke ran his hands across the gelding’s flanks, the horse sidestepping in response.

‘You should have been back earlier,’ Hamish continued with a studied puff of his pipe. ‘Take the horse back to the stables, Angus.’

‘Yes, Father.’ They watched Angus depart. He was limping slightly and, thinking himself out of sight, rubbed at his backside.

‘After months in the saddle I would have thought I’d earned some rest.’ Luke undid the leather saddlebag strung across his shoulder. From it he retrieved a sheath of paper marked by rain, grime and saddle grease. He passed the bill of sale to his father. ‘Besides, I’m sure Jasperson reported on my whereabouts.’

‘The cattle were obviously in fair order. They fetched a good price, although you had some losses.’ He scanned the paperwork with interest.

‘Unavoidable losses,’ Luke was not interested in giving a detailed account of the trip. His father rarely asked for one. ‘They did well. Better than I expected.’

‘You always have erred more on the conservative side, Luke.’

‘Not everyone can survive on risk alone.’ The silence between them signalled the beginning of the weeks ahead.

Hamish stroked his moustache thoughtfully. ‘How’s your shoulder?’

Luke slung the saddlebag back over his shoulder. ‘I’d keep Angus away from that Aboriginal boy. I caught them fighting.’

‘Willy is Boxer’s nephew,’ Hamish explained, ‘and if Angus gets knocked about a bit, well, he’ll just have to learn from it. As we all do. He’s eight and he’s not had the cosseting your own mother gave you.’

Rose could hardly be charged with being over protective of her children, Luke thought. His own childhood had been much like Angus’s until he’d been all but orphaned through childhood illness, accident and his mother’s death.

‘You better get yourself cleaned up. It is Christmas apparently.’

‘So I’ve been told.’ So that was it, eight months droving and their conversation limited to a handful of minutes.

‘By the way, Luke, your grandmother died recently. She never woke from her sleep.’

‘I see. And the emporium?’ An image of the George Street Emporium he’d visited recently sprang to mind. It was crowded with every conceivable object: hammers and pickaxes, through to sacks of foodstuffs, men’s clothing and material for women’s things. He’d been intrigued with a set of finely carved men: six tiny Chinamen with poles strung across their shoulders and buckets dangling from fine cord at the end. The owner of the emporium reckoned they’d been carved from ivory. But Luke hadn’t settled for that, he’d purchased the tortoiseshell hair comb instead.

His father shrugged. ‘No doubt we will receive correspondence in that regard.’Walking around the side of the house Luke paused to take a swig from the canvas waterbag that hung from a hook under the eaves of the meat house. It was freshly washed down. Clearly there had been a kill in celebration of Christmas. Black flies buzzed incessantly as water dripped from the large wooden chopping block, a hefty tree trunk four feet wide by three feet high. Butchers knives and buckets stood washed on a low wooden table and the tampered dirt floor showed semi-dried puddles of water. Over all came the pungent scent of chloride of lime.

‘Luke, Luke, Luke!’

Luke found himself caught up in a great hug by Lee and was soon following his pigtailed, bow-kneed form past the old man’s large vegetable garden and into his hut. It was dark inside. Dark enough for streaks of daylight to show through myriad unevenly joined planks of wood. Luke counted three candles burning wanly in makeshift holders, a broken china cup, a saucer, a mound of earth. Beyond that he could smell incense burning. He sat cross-legged on the floor. The flare of a match broke the almost other-worldly feel of the room. A deep chuckle followed.

‘Young fella come back, eh?’