A Changing Land

‘Indeed Mrs Stackland is a fount of wisdom,’ Claire answered brusquely. ‘I would like cold cuts and some tasty vegetables this evening.’ She would be needing sustenance, she thought with a smile.

The girl left hastily with the tray. Claire heard a screech and then the smash of glass; Mrs Stackland’s taut reprimand followed. She flicked her eyes closed in annoyance before securely closing the door leading down the hall to the kitchen. It was too hot in this room, far too hot. There was a sensation of discomfort in her stomach and she felt the debilitating approach of a headache. Claire opened the window on the southern wall, flinging back the curtains in an effort to stir the air. Her home was beginning to resemble a madhouse. Now she could hear muffled sobbing. Despite the heat and the massing flies, Claire crooked her neck out the window to see who was making such a pitiful racket.

Margaret sat crouched by the meat house, the black skirt of her maid’s uniform wet with what Claire assumed to be spilt lemonade. About to slam the window shut, she watched in surprise as Luke approached the girl.

‘Are you all right?’ He squatted beside her. ‘Mrs Stackland will be wondering where you are.’ At the mention of the cook, the girl wiped her eyes. ‘That’s better.’ He held out his hand to her. She looked at him as if he were offering something forbidden. ‘Here.’ He took her hand and helped her up.

Margaret hesitated, her soft mouth opening and closing. The girl was staring at Luke whom, having been distracted by the opening window, was now looking directly at Claire. The maid glanced from Luke to Claire and walked quietly away.

Luke tipped his wide-brimmed hat, his eyes never leaving Claire’s face.

Claire closed the window quietly. From the Chinese-lacquered cabinet she poured herself a sweet madeira, drinking the liquid down in three swallows, before placing the glass on a leather-topped table, oblivious to the ring stain seeping into the leather.

It was midnight. Claire swirled the washcloth in the blue and white ceramic basin, wrung the excess water from it and gave a final freshening wipe to the nape of her neck. Dropping the cloth on the top of the wooden washstand she pulled the cotton nightgown over her head, the material catching on the dampness of her skin. The bed creaked.

‘I won’t be back till dusk. I’m expecting Mrs Stackland to prepare a feast for New Year’s Day celebrations.’

A wave of tobacco, brandy and Hamish’s rough male scent lingered in the room after he’d left. She could not recall when his lovemaking had been so amorous. It was late and tomorrow she would be tired, bruised and out of sorts. Hamish, once tender and careful in his affections, had grown physical and sometimes a little rough in his infrequent ministrations towards her. She touched her stomach. There was a swelling there and she was sure a flutter of movement awoke her not two nights ago. Could it be possible? Certainly her moods had been fractious recently and her health not as it should be.

During her life Claire had been as reliable as the full moon and although her womb chose to grace her with only one precious child, she now believed it possible there might be another, though why now? She was past child-bearing both in age and enthusiasm. How she wished she could recall her last fertile month. Of course such a condition excused her from her girlish fancies. One could expect to be emotional if they were with child. A convenient excuse, Claire decided, as she fingered the delicate workmanship of the tortoiseshell comb. Often she wondered where life may have taken her if Luke were older. Certainly she was aware of an attraction spanning some years, however Luke’s recent innuendo had changed her perceptions. She was past middle age – this was not the time for romantic fancies – and yet here she was thinking of Luke’s admiration and the presence of Wangallon’s stud master. As for being with child, Claire ran the silver-backed brush through the curling ends of her hair … How ridiculous.

Pinning her hair back in a loose French roll, Claire studied her reflection, first the left side, then the right. There was a softness to her jaw, hollows beneath once full cheeks and wisps of grey in her dark hair. She was no longer a girl, no longer gilded by the dewy gods of youth. She pinched her cheeks to heighten their colour as perspiration settled in the hollow of her throat, between her breasts and on the backs of her thighs. She touched her stomach again, hoping it was a phantom of past wanting. Strangely enough she’d never been one for tears. Even now, accepting her loneliness as she had these past few months, the pity of it remained contained within her. Where she once saw space and freedom, she now experienced isolation, and the great untamed wilderness that was Wangallon now seemed savage. One could be grateful for what they received in life and one could also resent it. Claire looked at the pretty hair comb on her dresser and thought of the many times she had wished to go dancing or to dine out or call on a friend or promenade down the street. She was the wife of one of the country’s wealthiest graziers. Good fortune was too hard to come by to treat it so poorly.

In bed the hot night brought beads of moisture to her skin. Beside her the bedside candle fluttered. Thank heavens, she muttered, as the slightest of breezes wafted about her face. It was strange how one could look for the most mundane of things: A cool place to sit, water to parch her thirst, and air, any air. Air, a puff, a gust, a draft or a zephyr; how she longed for wind to stir her clothes and blow away the heat of this place. It was as if Wangallon’s thirsty soil were reaching for her, its many hands dragging her down. Claire pictured the acres of land emanating from Wangallon Homestead, envisioned the cemetery down by the bend in the creek. She wanted to be buried near her beloved father in Sydney. Not here in this desolate place where few people visited and the sun cracked the ground like a piece of broken pottery. Turning on her side, Claire reached for her book.

Mrs Aeneas Gunn’s We of the Never Never had created quite a stir in social circles on publication and Claire, determined to converse on the book’s merits, had procured a copy via catalogue almost immediately. It did not appeal, however, for who wished to read of a woman’s pain, isolation and hardship when one’s own life was far from the gentrified circles of convivial female companionship. No, this was one book she would have little problem dismissing, although she kept it by her bedside, for Hamish had once noted his approval. Claire’s favourite book, which she was reading for the fourth time and which lay hidden beneath Mrs Gunn’s weighty tome, was Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows. Claire smiled as she turned to the next chapter. Sometimes she longed to have been born within the cool green of England’s bosom, instead of being conceived on the long sea voyage out to be born in the most distant of countries. She envied Wetherly his English life and wondered at his leaving of it. With a yawn she closed her eyes, her fingers automatically touching her lips where Hamish’s kisses had fallen.

Robert Macken gulped down the rest of his coffee and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘A fine breakfast, Maggie. Fine indeed.’ He pushed the wooden chair back roughly. The legs caught on the rug beneath and he swore softly under his breath. ‘Have you heard from Jim?’

Maggie collected the empty cup along with her husband’s plate as he stood, stretching his back out. She shook her head.

‘I accepted the lad as my own. You know that, Maggie, and I have no problem with him not being mine. I don’t know why I tell you this now after so many years.’

Maggie left the dirty breakfast dishes on the end of the wooden table to place a small white hand on her husband’s chest. She looked up into his pale eyes.

‘I want the lad to get the money that’s owing to him and come home,’ Robert stated as he brushed her hair with his lips. He lifted his cap from the peg on the wall, flicking at the brim as if new.

Maggie moved to rest her head on his chest. Since Jim’s leaving she’d refrained from arguing against the lad’s inheritance. What was the point? He’d gone despite her protests. Now her nights were filled with anxiety as she wondered why she’d not done more to stop him.

‘There’s much we can do with the money.’ Robert rubbed his hands together. ‘A new sty for the pigs and a John Deere tractor: Aye, not a big one mind. I’d clear that field behind the milker’s shed and we’d have to move those rocks.’ He adjusted the cap, hitched up his trousers. ‘There’s a few days’ work in that.’ He rubbed his lower back at the thought of it. ‘Wouldn’t I love to see the look on Lord Andrews’ face when I tell him that I’ve no need of his contract?’

Maggie busied herself wiping imaginary crumbs from the table into the palm of her hand.

‘You all right then, lass? You’re looking a bit peaky.’

Maggie brushed her hand against the floral cotton of her dress. ‘Never been much of a morning person, Robert. I expect my age is catching up with me.’

‘Rubbish. Steady as a black-faced ewe climbing a rocky hillside you are, my Maggie.’ He rumpled her hair, rested a large hand briefly on her shoulder and gave it a shake. ‘We’d have enough produce to sell direct to the supermarket. And I was thinking eggs, laying hens. Just enough to sell in Tongue first off and then we’ll see how it goes. Once the lad’s back we’d be able to manage the feeding of them, and the gathering. When we’re established we’ll get one of the Childers’ girls in to help with the sorting. That would be good for you too, Maggie,’ he clucked her under the chin. ‘Bit of female company eh?’

‘That would be good, aye.’

‘Well sound a bit keen about it, lass.’

Maggie untied her apron. She needed some fresh air. ‘They’re grand plans, Robert.’

Robert winked at her, picked up his wallet. ‘I’d add a room to this house too.’ He surveyed the tiny crofter’s cottage. The ground floor served as kitchen, living and dining area. ‘I’d build a new bookcase.’ He scraped his socks on the threadbare rug, ‘and carpet –’

‘You’ll be late,’ Maggie gently reminded him. Robert was meeting Mr Levi, the solicitor, in Tongue. There was an accountant arriving from Edinburgh to discuss the tax implications of Jim’s impending fortune.

Robert kissed her on the cheek and she helped him with his tweed jacket. Although it was summer the breeze from the loch was cold when she opened the door and Maggie shrugged her shoulders into her homespun cardigan as Robert stepped from the threshold.

‘It’ll be the most pleasure I’ve enjoyed in years, telling Lord Andrews he can stick his measly wool contract up his ill-gotten kilt.’

Maggie watched her husband drive away in his old pick-up. The vehicle made a grating noise and puffed dark smoke from its exhaust as Robert changed gears to drive up the slight hill to the left of the house. She smelled diesel and added a new pick-up to her husband’s list of improvements. She supposed she should be grateful for his excitement, yet she didn’t think she could live with someone else’s money, especially this money. It was wrong.

The air carried a whiff of moisture as Maggie left the whitewashed cottage. The loch rippled at the pebbled shoreline as she turned from the east and followed a low stone wall that ran past the house up the side of the hill. In her youth Maggie dreamt of being a famous athlete, a long distance runner. She would tuck her skirt into her knickers, and run the length of the loch bordering her parents’ small block that lay some miles to the east. She had no running shoes then. Her brown lace-ups sped her around the loch as she slithered on pebbles, slippery with the misty breath of the night. If the wind was behind her on those dawn-lit mornings she would lift her arms in freedom, feeling the crick of her ankles as she stumbled with joy. On the weekends when school was done and she could wangle time away from her mother, she would add a scramble up the hill next to the loch as part of her running course. From this vantage point she would catch her breath amid the tangle of green and purple vegetation.

Maggie walked the hill of her home these past twenty-five years, stroking the stone wall that breasted the hill. It was a pleasing aspect, for Robert was a fine crofter. Not one stone wall was in disrepair, not one shingle loose on the roof of their house. Their few sheds were weatherproof, their new potatoes were soft and buttery and there was always a neatly stacked heap of peat for the fire. The cow always gave milk and Maggie still churned their own butter, though their neighbours laughed at her domestic tendencies when a trip to Tongue could supply most of what Maggie grew or made. If she were to ask herself if she were happy, her answer would be yes. Although she also comprehended that she knew no better. How did one judge a life if there was nothing to compare it with?

At the top of the hill Maggie paused by a cairn and collected her breath. Her forty-seven years were now presenting themselves in the form of swollen ankles and a stiffness that did not abide with the passing of winter. Even her breath seemed shallow now, as if her lungs were shrinking with age. Shielding her eyes from the sun, Maggie looked back across their loch. It was a fine view. The water stretched out like a wide yawn to disappear at the foot of another hill. Summer brought a shimmer of heather to the landscape and as the breeze picked up, the landscape shimmied with the vibrancy of a young girl at her first ceilidh. It was a far different atmosphere to the memory of her childhood.

The view from the hill of Maggie’s youth took in a wedge of flat country and the village of Tongue. Usually she would reach this hilltop after scrambling up its grassy sides, her calves burning with use. It would be then that the dreadful sameness of her life stared back at her. The thousands of rocks which some cataclysmic event had spewed up from the ruins of the earth; the stagnant pools of water lying dank across the flat country, the B&Bs that signalled the yoke of the English and the measly four acres most crofters were expected to survive on.

Maggie would breathe then, a great lungful of unpolluted air, and cast her eyes across to the adjoining hills at the cairns topping each successive high point, until the furthest mound of rocks looked like an unlit candle on a poorly made cake. The urge to run this route of ancient markers would be so great that Maggie scarcely acknowledged she had made the decision to be punished again by her weary mother. Her feet would take her to one and then two cairns before her brain bargained with her pumping heart to return home.

Was it so long ago? Maggie asked, stooping to place a fallen rock on the crumbling pile. With a sigh she turned downhill. There were still the breakfast things to be tidied, a pair of Robert’s socks to be darned and the fish man would be calling. They would be having haddock tonight, probably breaded, for being a Friday Robert would call at the local for a few ales and be wanting a bit of a fry up for his dinner.

She looked at her watch, wondering at the time in Australia. Hoping her boy was with friends; wondering if the getting of the money would be as easy as everyone expected. Jim’s silence from the far side of the world set Maggie’s memory in motion and her ulcer to flare. Inside the house she poured herself a long glass of milk, her hand only briefly hesitating before pouring a good measure of whisky into the glass. She gulped the liquid down, feeling the fresh cow’s milk glaze her tongue and gums with a fatty coating. She hoped Jim would return home soon. With a sob Maggie lent on the kitchen bench, her hands cradling her forehead. The waiting was proving too much for her.

How had all of this happened when she had only wanted a pair of running shoes?

The night dripped with the heat of a long day lingering. There was a closeness in the air; a tight constriction existing beyond the mantle of discomfort left by the sun’s blaze. Boxer felt the constraining pressure of the unknown in the droplets of sweat beading his neck, arms and chest. The moisture tracked a path to pool at his stomach, while the wadded blanket cushioning his head from the dirt beneath grew wet from the water seeping along the wrinkled coils of his neck. His hands swiped irritably at the sheen covering the dark skin of his body. The spirits wanted to make their presence known, regardless of Boxer’s inclination.

Leaving the woman by his side, he crawled awkwardly from the bark humpy. His knees cursed at the clash of bone against bone, nonetheless he managed to stand, his aged slowness masked by the night sky. As his muscles warmed, Boxer’s feet traced the dirt track. He walked nimbly, skirting the edge of the camp, weaving through trees and grass tufts until the creek snaked its scent into his nostrils. When his cracked soles finally sank into the cool, sandy mud he sniffed in recognition. Here, in the dank still of the creek, he breathed in the cloying odour of stagnant water, oozing mud and rotting vegetation. Layered within hovered the remnants of campfires, and the tangy fish scent of mussels. His splayed toes clenched at the sinking softness. The water ebbed at his ankles. If he walked to the left, Boxer knew his feet would be ripped by the mound of opened shells that supplemented the white’s food the tribe was given monthly. To the right, further up around the second bend in the creek, was the women’s sacred place. Directly opposite across the water was what he’d come for.

Lowering himself to the ground, the skin of his thighs sagged into the sand beneath as he sat cross-legged. Above him the depth of the sky seemed to angle downwards, the glow of the spirits flickering with differing degrees of intensity. He longed for the guiding path of the moon, for the brightness that allowed safe passage in the dark, for fair hunting of both land and water creatures. This night was not that time.

Boxer narrowed his eyes, his gaze directed across sluggish water to the far bank of the creek. There was a deeper darkness there. A murky crevice between the trees beyond that beckoned through wisps of unknown movement. His lips moved in unspoken speech, his mind calmed. They had awoken him with the sweat of their need. As he closed his eyes his skin prickled, the wiry hairs standing upright on his sinewy arms. He nodded then, ready. Once one comprehended their presence, their breath of life in all things, fear borne of ignorance settled like the embers of a fire turned to ash. Boxer breathed with the land in and around him. The great heart of mother earth steadied his vision like a soft caress.

Boxer pictured the great sweep of land that was Wangallon. Far beneath him Hamish Gordon rode on horseback flanked by his men and one black, one of Boxer’s own. They were crossing the big river from the land of the Gordon’s to another. A chill wind swept along the mighty waterway. Boxer felt the gust as surely as he rode beside his Boss.

He awoke to the scurry of feet and the screech of laughter, to the flick of sand on his face. Women were stoking fires on the creek’s bank. Children were rushing into the water, screaming with delight. Great streaming curls of water flashed in the muted greens and browns of dawn. The first tinge of light smeared the space above the tree line red with heat. Boxer scraped the sand of the creek from his drooping cheek before scrambling to his feet. Brushing gritty crusts of sleep from his eyes, his filmy sight followed the smear of red as it grew in the lightening sky. It was true then, he thought despondently as he retraced his steps back to his humpy.

There would be blood.

Anthony didn’t wait to be cordially invited inside the jackeroo’s quarters. It was 6.30 am. He knocked twice on the screen door and walked inside. He found Jack in the kitchen, the youth’s bare feet resting on the kitchen table where last night’s dinner plates jostled for space with a recently consumed breakfast of mutton chops, onion gravy and fried egg. The smells hung in the air, competing fiercely with the stench of cigarette smoke and a blazing wood-fire heater.

Jack was stubbing his cigarette out on the rim of an empty beer can, oblivious to his surroundings. The local FM station was turned up to what Anthony suspected was its highest volume.

‘Morning, Jack.’ Anthony sat down nonchalantly and hit the off button on the radio. Jack moved his feet immediately and, as if caught having committed a serious crime, set about clearing the dirty plates.

‘Sorry, Anthony, I wasn’t expecting you.’ Jack placed the plates on the sink.

‘Relax, kid, where’s your guest?’

Jack hovered between the table and the sink, unsure whether he should sit down or start washing up. Eventually he elected to busy himself wiping down the kitchen table with a dishcloth. Crumbs and other assorted bits of food scraps fell onto the floor. ‘Having a shower. He asked me if I’d drive him to the airport, but I told him that Matt and I were …’

Anthony looked automatically through the open door that led out to the small living room and bathroom. ‘Tonight’s plane leaves at 6 pm so you have him in town at lunch and then leave him to his own devices.’ That way, Anthony decided, he was unlikely to cross paths with Sarah at the airport.

Sensing there was more to this than just a friendly visit, Jack asked, ‘Who is he, Anthony?’

Anthony briefly considered laying it all on the line. ‘Someone we don’t want here.’

‘Well, that is a grand way to greet the morning.’ Jim, freshly showered and dressed, was standing in the doorway.

‘Coffee, anyone?’ Jack offered meekly, sensing both men’s eyes boring the other’s like a drill bit. He might be the jackeroo but that didn’t mean he couldn’t pick up when two men wanted to bash the crap out of each other. He made a fuss of filling the kettle at the sink, lit the gas cooktop and sat the kettle on top.

‘Jack here will drive you into town,’ Anthony said casually. ‘There is a plane at six tonight. In the meantime, we’ve got a few things to take care of so you can make yourself at home here, watch a bit of telly or something.’

‘Or something?’ Jim mimicked.

Jack retrieved two mugs from the beige kitchen cupboard.

‘You know I’ll get what’s coming to me,’ Jim stated, pulling on a pair of socks.

Anthony dearly wanted to tell him that pigs might fly. He watched Jack fiddling with the coffee and sugar.

‘I just wanted people to be a bit fair about things,’ continued Jim.

Anthony had to give the Scot points. He had some nerve with his surprise visit and genuine disappointment with the welcoming committee.

‘If I had a written history of the Gordon’s at Wangallon,’ Anthony said, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice, ‘I’d gladly give it to you to read. Then you might be a little more understanding.’

The kettle whistled. Jack added a teaspoon of coffee, then water to each mug.

‘Understanding?’ Jim’s voice was raised.

Jack held up a container of milk. ‘Milk?’

Anthony lowered his voice. ‘I don’t want to argue with you.’ The last thing they needed was a scene in front of the jackeroo. It would be around the district within a few days.

‘I’m sure you don’t. You can’t exactly complain about my rights when you’ve got your share and you’re not even a Gordon.’

At this Jack dropped the mug he’d been about to pass to Jim. ‘Bugger.’

Considering the events of the last few weeks, Anthony could barely contain himself. Only Jack’s presence stopped him from saying anything further. He walked out of the kitchen onto the gauze enclosed verandah. ‘Jack.’

Jack skirted past Jim in a flash. He pulled his boots on and stuck his wide-brimmed hat firmly on his head. Anthony held the screen door open for him as he went through.

‘You’re not welcome here, Jim, and I’m starting to think that Sarah was right. You shouldn’t be entitled to a bloody cent,’ Anthony growled. Having spent the night alone and with Sarah now en route to Sydney, Anthony had little time for the Gordon wannabe.

Jim was a nose length from Anthony’s face in an instant. They remained that way for several seconds, Anthony opposite Jim, young Jack looking up from where he stood on the cement path below.

‘Don’t talk to me about entitlements. You’ve got your share and the grand house and its contents, just for insinuating yourself with the Gordon family. It’s me by rights that should be having this conversation with you, mate,’ Jim spat, ‘not the other way around.’

Anthony’s fist collected Jim squarely on his jaw; there was a crack, the force of the blow sent Jim into a flat spin that propelled him through the gauze of the verandah and out onto the small square of lawn where he landed with a thud on his back.

‘Damn,’ Jack said with reverence, admiring the great gaping hole in the gauze. ‘Damn!’ He walked over to where Jim lay sprawled on the ground. He was holding his jaw, moaning. Take that, Jack thought savagely, itching to throw in the Wangallon Town boot. He didn’t know exactly what was going on, but he was on Anthony’s side. He ran after him and slid into the passenger side of the Landcruiser.

Anthony stretched his fingers, felt the pain rip into the back of his hand and down his finger and knew his knuckles were broken. The dust spurted out from beneath the Landcruiser’s rear tyres. ‘We better go find Matt and see when Toby’s going to start mustering the cattle to go on the route.’

Jack angled his backside into the seat and smiled. Now this was a good day.

Angus stopped near the entrance to the stables. A brown snake slithered from under a pile of old timber railings, leaving a wiggly track in the soft dirt as it headed towards open country. Its skin was glossy, the body fat. Angus watched until the snake was out of sight. The door to the tack room was open and his father’s saddle was gone. He looked over his shoulder to make sure he was still alone and, selecting a bridle from a peg on the wall, headed to the rear of the stables. Willy was in an adjoining yard brushing one of the mares with a curry comb.

‘Are you meant to be here?’ Angus slipped through the timber rails. He’d not seen Willy since their fight over the slingshot.

Willy turned abruptly, running his hand across a snotty nose. ‘Boxer says I’m to brush down the horses.’

Angus walked up to the boy. He was standing perfectly still now, the mare nuzzling his shoulder. ‘Do you know where they’ve gone then?’ His hand tightened on the bridle. Jasperson once told him a good stripe with the bit on a bridle would stun any man.

Willy pointed in the direction of the river. ‘Mebbe that way. Are you going riding?’

‘Maybe.’

They stood staring at each other until Willy returned to his brushing.

Angus scrambled through two lots of railings and walked across hoof-packed dirt. Standing alone, sniffing the wood of the yards, was the black gelding. Angus had christened him Wallace after William Wallace, the Scottish highlander who attempted to free them from the English. His father approved of his choice, reminding Angus that an animal with such a name would not suffer fools. Well, Angus knew that. He still had a bruise on his bum to prove it. Angus had reminded Wallace that his father was also a highlander, not that this shared allegiance made much difference. To date Angus had managed to stay on once out of seven attempts.

Angus slipped through the railings. Wallace trotted away. ‘Come on, fella,’ Angus called softly. ‘Come on.’ Having taken his father’s advice to make friends with Wallace, he’d spent the last few days, morning and night, feeding and talking to him. Willy appeared on the other side of the railings with a bucket of chaff. ‘Here,’ he called. ‘Try this.’

Reluctantly Angus accepted the bucket. As soon as he placed it on the ground Wallace walked forward and began to eat from it. When the horse lifted his head clear Angus slipped the bridle on. ‘Gotcha!’

Willy opened the gate and Angus led Wallace into a larger yard.

‘Jump on him here,’ Willy encouraged. ‘Bareback. You can ride bareback?’

Angus chewed his lip. He didn’t much like the thought of falling off again. Willy stared at him, his skinny black hands resting on his hips, his bare toes digging into the sand of the yards. Angus was sure he could see the beginning of a smile. Gritting his teeth, he led Wallace to the railings, climbing up until he was level with the horse’s back. The horse was stamping the ground impatiently, snorting and shaking his head.

‘Come on,’ Willy encouraged. ‘Get on.’

Angus hesitated, considered the ramifications of being too scared to continue, before flinging his right leg carefully over the horse’s back. His father had warned him of sudden movements and every muscle tightened expectantly in his body as he grimaced. He took a breath. Wallace barely moved. Shifting his bum into the centre of the horse’s back, Wallace moved strongly beneath him before wheeling from left to right. Angus dug his knees in as he’d been taught, tightened his grip on the reins and turned the horse to his right. Soon they were walking around the yard’s perimeter, his face all gappy eight-year-old grin.

‘Faster,’ Willy encouraged, perching himself on the top railing of the yard. ‘Faster.’

In response Angus touched the horse’s flanks. Wallace increased his speed. Soon he was in a trot. Trees in surrounding paddocks began to blur, the railings whizzed past his legs as Angus bounced lightly up and down.

‘Me too,’ Willy cried out. Without waiting for a response, he jumped from the railings when the horse passed by and landed behind Angus. Wallace reared immediately. Angus felt Willy’s hands frantically grabbing his shirt tail, then the boy was gone, Angus clinging to two great handfuls of mane.

‘Whoa, Wallace, good Wallace.’ Angus calmed the horse and turned to see Willy rubbing his bum. Wallace snorted and whinnied as Angus slid off his back, patted his nose and removed the bridle. ‘What did you do that for?’

Willy hunched his shoulders. His arm was bleeding where it had scraped the timber railings.

Angus moved to inspect the injury. ‘Come on now.’ He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and tied it around the worst of the deep scratch. Willy watched warily, rubbing at his bum.

‘Hard, isn’t it?’ Angus bandaged up the wound. A few minutes later Wallace trotted up to nibble at his shirtsleeve. In the distance was a horse and rider. The boys ran to the railings and clambering to the top, looked out towards the west. ‘Wetherly,’ Angus guessed. ‘He rides like he’s on show, so Father says. But where’s he going?’

Willy hunched his shoulders and then pointed towards the orchard. It looked like Mungo waiting beneath the last of the orange trees, his hat cocked back on his head. Soon one of the maids came into view. With a grin, Angus elbowed Willy in the side and they ran from the stables, their feet soon crunching orange and lemon leaves soft with ruin as the morning sun crisscrossed the land. Angus spotted Luke’s empty camp at the base of a large tree and dived for his swag, Willy landing partially on him.

‘Get off,’ he struggled. Ahead Lee was shuffling along the avenue of trees, beyond lay the neatly plotted square of the vegetable garden. One of the maids was in the garden, a basket over her arm. As if on cue Lee began walking towards the maid, his fist flaying the air in agitation, chasing the girl from his domain. Angus and Willy crawled on their stomachs to a tree and then darted to another.

‘Ouch.’ Willy extracted a prickly burr from his big toe.

‘Shh,’ Angus frowned.

Margaret’s soft voice drifted across to them. They dropped behind a log as Mungo and Margaret sat at the base of a gum, he with his legs spread long and wide and she with her skirts tucked about her ankles.

‘I would see you tonight.’

Angus peered above the fallen timber, watching bug-eyed as Mungo took Margaret’s hand in his. It was pale next to his blackness.

‘I’ll be going again soon; in two full moons.’ Mungo glanced about them. ‘We could meet at the ridge.’

Angus clapped Willy on the head and they ducked behind the log, their hands clasped across each other’s mouths.

Margaret removed her hand from his grasp. ‘I’m promised.’

Mungo took the girl by her shoulders. ‘He is old. He will die soon and then –’

‘Then there will be another.’

There were tears in the girl’s eyes. Angus saw them swell in size like small quail eggs and then drop, glistening, to wet the material of her dress. Mungo reached for her and kissed her.

Angus jammed Willy’s face in the dirt to muffle his laughter.

‘I would be with you,’ Mungo said softly.

‘For one night?’ Margaret shook her head. ‘It is not enough.’ She stood, turning to look at him. ‘In here,’ she touched her chest, ‘I am not black, I am not white. I am me. Do you see me?’

‘I too have dreams,’ Mungo told her. ‘Most of them remain in the sky with the spirit people.’

‘That is because you make it so.’ Margaret shook her head. ‘You are not the one who must lie with an old man. Who must listen to the jibes of the women because my father was white.’

‘These are our people.’

Margaret scowled. ‘I have not seen you camped by the creek. I have not seen you for nine moons. I think maybe that sometimes you too are white.’

Mungo scrunched a handful of twigs in the palm of his hand and tossed them into the tufted grass at his feet. Margaret walked away.

Angus rolled away from the log. ‘Blackfella business.’

‘Mebbe whitefella business too,’ Willy answered. ‘This is bad thing,’ he cautioned, ‘this wanting.’

Mungo looked like bad meat had entered his belly.

Frank Michaels looked at his appointment book and squinted, as if wishing he were blind. Sarah Gordon was slotted in for 3 pm, Mr Harvey Jamieson, a personal friend and prominent entrepreneur with a recalcitrant wife and messy divorce looming, had a thick line through his name. He would have to take the old boy out for a scotch to make it up to him, Frank decided. God knew he would probably need it. He was on his third wife. Pushing his reading glasses onto the bridge of his nose, Frank studied the facsimile received earlier.

Mr Woodbridge advised he was acting on behalf of one James Robert Macken of the village of Tongue, Northern Scotland and that his client wished to receive his full entitlement as bequeathed to him by the late Angus Gordon. Further, his client wanted a full cash payment and a thirty per cent share of both the livestock and the contents of Wangallon Homestead. James Macken would therefore be contesting the last will and testament of Angus Gordon accordingly. Frank placed the facsimile to one side, removed his reading glasses and leant back in his black leather office chair. Tony Woodbridge was capable enough. The man knew how to argue a case. Unfortunately he was not averse to underhand shenanigans either.

‘Ronald, old chap,’ he said aloud, addressing Sarah’s father, ‘you should have kept your dick in your pants, old boy’. Frank wasn’t one for dramatics but he felt disturbed by James Macken. In his experience there was nothing worse than dealing with someone who was comparatively poor with a grudge, and it was clear by the Macken boy’s demands that he did begrudge the Gordons. His second concern of the day came via another telephone call that caused him to drop his blue enamelled Sheaffer ink pen on the office floor. Were it not for the knock on his door announcing his personal assistant, Rhonda, with Sarah Gordon in tow, he may well have added a little whisky to his morning coffee.

‘It’s nice to see you again, Frank.’

‘And you, my dear,’ he replied, composing himself as he cleaned his spectacles. The last time he’d seen Sarah was at Angus’s funeral. He adroitly summed up the situation, reading Mr Macken’s requests, wondering if the renowned Gordon temper would flare. ‘As you can see, he is now contesting the will and if he chooses to go to court, Mr Woodbridge will represent him and …’ Frank leant forward for emphasis, ‘he is very good’.

‘Damn it. You know he arrived at Wangallon two days ago?’ asked Sarah.

Frank linked his fingers together.

‘I can’t lose one acre of Wangallon, Frank.’

‘Hmm. What does Anthony say?’

Sarah rolled her eyes. ‘I’m having a few issues there. His idea is to develop Boxer’s Plains.’

‘Boxer’s Plains?’ Frank set about cleaning his spectacles again.

‘You know, increase productivity from a decreased holding. I don’t want Boxer’s ploughed up, Frank, it was the last block purchased by my great-grandfather and it’s prime grazing country.’

‘I agree.’ Frank studied Sarah’s tapping fingers. ‘I think you had better tell me everything.’

Sarah hadn’t really discussed life on Wangallon for quite a while. Even her telephone conversations with Shelley were sanitised versions of her daily life. She told Frank about the management issues, lack of teamwork and Anthony’s handling of the clearing project at Boxer’s Plains. ‘And I told him to stop doing anything else on the block.’

Poor Anthony, Frank thought, the lad did have the foresight to know an increase in productivity was warranted. Unfortunately his timing was lousy, his lack of courtesy towards Sarah troubling and his choice of block unbelievable. ‘Well there’s only two thousand acres ploughed so far, so not too much harm has been done but I agree the project has to stop immediately. The bank won’t lend the money at this point in time to pay for any land development, and –’

Sarah looked at him suspiciously. ‘How did you know how much country had been cultivated? Or that the bank won’t lend us the money to do it?’

Frank cleared his throat. ‘Secondly, there is lobbying going on from the environmentalists to bring in clearing legislation. We don’t need any negative publicity coming from that angle and I imagine Mr Woodbridge will do his utmost to paint you and Wangallon in a very poor light. If you decide to contest your grandfather’s will, he will make this private matter very public.’ And that, Frank decided, could place Wangallon’s and the Gordon’s reputation in jeopardy.

Sarah ran her fingers through her hair. ‘I have to do something.’

Frank wondered if Angus Gordon had done the right thing including Ronald’s illegimate son in his will. He and Sarah’s grandfather had spent long afternoons discussing his proposed instructions. Every argument produced a counterclaim and more than a bottle of Scotch had been consumed during their diatribe. In the end, however, Angus was not prepared to go to his deathbed without ensuring that the mistakes of the past were not repeated. It was a revelation to see his cantankerous old friend develop a sense of decency at the end of his life, especially considering the number of scrapes Frank only just managed to get Angus through over the years.

Frank cleared his throat. ‘You asked me how I knew about the clearing.’ He leant back in his chair, made a pyramid of his fingers. ‘Your grandfather set a number of mechanisms in place prior to his death. You know how obsessed he was with the property, with its continuation. He wanted to ensure its survival. To that end Wangallon’s yearly financials are forwarded to me; I, in turn, discuss them with Wangallon’s agribusiness financial advisor.’ Frank leaned forward. ‘You never would have received approval from the bank for the cattle truck loan.’

Sarah looked at him, dumbfounded.

‘My dear, many large grazing properties have trusts in place to run the business until the successor reaches a certain age. Wangallon’s arrangement merely keeps an eye on financial matters.’

‘So Anthony and I were never in charge?’ Even now her grandfather was controlling them from the grave.

‘Of course you were, or are, I should say.’ Frank pulled out a manila folder, flipped it open. ‘Checking figures is not the same as running the property.’

Sarah felt decidedly uncomfortable. There was a lack of trust on behalf of her grandfather that made her feel ill. ‘What about the funds needed to pay the contractors for the Boxer’s Plains development?’

Frank looked her directly in the eye. ‘Sarah, I’ve seen no budget or projections. Banks just won’t lend money willy-nilly, you know, and until your cattle sales start and your shearing proceeds come in next month, you haven’t got a great margin to be playing with. And if we go to court it will be expensive. Have you seen any costings for the development?’

Sarah shook her head. Matt had mentioned the inordinate sum of $200,000 plus.

‘Well we don’t want to place Wangallon in financial difficulty or put the bank offside. I suggest you tell Anthony that you’ve spoken to the bank and that they’re not willing to support the project. In the meantime I’ll see if they’re happy to increase your overdraft in order to pay for the work already done. Sarah looked peaky. ‘Would you like a glass of water?’ Frank walked over to the cream sideboard and poured water from a plastic jug. ‘Here.’ He passed Sarah the glass and perched himself on the edge of his desk. It was unfortunate to have to take such a hard line, yet quite frankly Anthony’s clearing of Boxer’s Plains could have serious ramifications, not least of all to his own family firm. ‘Look, I’m not saying the development can’t be done at some later stage, if both of you are agreeable to it. After all, increasing productivity through selective clearing increases the value of one’s asset base. Although I am extremely surprised Anthony didn’t present his plans and budget to the bank.’

Sarah took a long sip of water. It was room temperature and, unlike the sweet rainwater of Wangallon, tasted of chlorine.

‘Once you have contacted Anthony and clarified why the clearing has to stop we can concentrate on this inheritance tangle. The development project can be revisited properly next year. But not on Boxer’s Plains.’

‘Why not?’

Frank adjusted his reading glasses on his nose. He was convinced this part of his body was also shrinking with age. ‘Because the block is already extremely valuable in terms of grazing potential.’ Which was true. ‘Choose an area on the eastern boundary.’

Sarah could only imagine Anthony’s response: A directive on where he could and could not develop, coming from a solicitor.

‘My dear, you have just sat there and complained about a lack of teamwork and not being consulted about the development. And I agree with you.’

Sarah looked down at her short oval fingernails, at the pale moons that extended from beneath the softness of her skin.

‘You must explain to him why this decision has been taken.’ Frank returned to his chair and the comfort of the padded cushion that eased his bony backside. ‘By the way, Sarah, Matt Schipp was employed by your grandfather. He is on Wangallon to keep an eye on things as you well know, so if you have any concerns management-wise, speak to him.’

Sarah nodded. If Anthony knew half of the control mechanisms in place she doubted whether his commitment to both her and Wangallon would have lasted beyond the reading of her grandfather’s will. ‘I guess Matt told you about the development?’ Frank gave a dip of his chin. ‘Well now he and Anthony are arguing.’

‘The man signed a contract. Matt isn’t going anywhere.’ The girl had the look of a startled deer about her which reminded him that for all her on-farm capability, she was only in her mid-twenties. ‘Now you’re here for advice, so here it is. You have two options. One, sell thirty per cent of the property to pay out your half-brother, or two, sell ten or fifteen thousand acres elsewhere. With that sale the bank would happily finance the rest of Jim’s entitlement.’

‘Sell?’ Sarah repeated. She had come here for help.

Frank lay his long knobbly fingers on the top of his desk. ‘This will only get more stressful and Wangallon is a large property. ‘Fulfill the terms of your grandfather’s will and get on with your life, Sarah. It’s the only logical solution. And stop that development on Boxer’s Plains.’

Sarah gulped at the water. She felt like she was going to be sick.

The first thing one noted when sighting the Crawford’s homestead was the impressive lawn that surrounded the building. Established fruit trees were arranged in a grid formation to the front right of the house while a generous patch of herbs sat squarely opposite. The remainder of the substantial space was bare of trees, although immaculately maintained and surrounded by a startlingly white picket fence. The house itself was imposing, rectangular in design, of the same mud brick and plaster construction as Wangallon Homestead, but, Hamish concluded, probably one-third larger in size than his own home. Resting his hands on the pommel of his saddle, Hamish shifted forward a little, the action freeing the cramp in his right calf muscle.

‘Big place, Boss,’ said McKenzie as they approached. Their horses trailed single file along the narrow dirt road up to the large verandah that encircled the homestead.

‘His holding does not match the grandiose view he holds of himself,’ Hamish stated with a patronising tone, although he had to admire the English for their ability to add regimented beauty to the Australian bush. ‘Jasperson, we are here as friends.’

His overseer raised a grey bristled eyebrow.

Once Hamish had craved success, then respectability, and now he had both. The gaining of it meant deliberation must now replace ruthless action, for the Gordon name needed to be protected. He chewed at his top lip, pulling at the hairs of his moustache; he was suppressing his innate need for revenge with a far more advantageous course of action. It was a pity the event didn’t feel more rewarding.

At the hitching rail they tethered their horses and Jasperson turned to survey the grounds. ‘Take a lot to maintain this, Boss.’

‘Indeed, Jasperson. Although I’m sure the domestics and gardeners will be keen to stay.’ At least for a while, Hamish concluded. There was little need for another homestead on Wangallon and the uptake of this one would be costly; besides, there was no one to live in it. Luke was beyond the niceties of a homestead such as this. For the moment he would continue to keep the household running and use it as a base for when he visited the property. It would make the five-hour round trip more bearable to know that there was a semblance of comfort at the end of the journey.

The wide verandah and sloping roof invited the three men into its embracing coolness. Hamish noted two hard-backed chairs, a table with books piled high upon it and an expanse of wooden boards.

‘Yes?’ A manservant in a black cloth suit, with a pointy chin lifted higher than his position demanded, was standing in the open doorway of the homestead.

Jasperson stepped forward, straightened his shoulders and gave the man his most withering look; a direct gaze of sunken cheeks, sun cracked skin and eyes that spoke of loathing. ‘Mr Hamish Gordon of Wangallon Station to see Mr Oscar Crawford.’

The manservant took a step back and opened the door wide for the trio to pass. They allowed their hats to be taken although on Hamish’s lead they refused to remove their riding boots and spurs.

‘Please follow me,’ the servant addressed Hamish.

They stood in a twelve-foot-high ceilinged hallway. The floorboards were highly polished, the tongue and groove walls whitewashed and hung with paintings. Undoubtedly these portraits were relations of Crawford. Hamish studied the florid face before him with its chin that resembled a sole dangling from a shoe. It still amazed him that men of this elk conquered Scotland. With a final glance at the dead, Hamish readied himself for business. He tapped dirt-stained nails against the carved wooden frame of the oil painting. Success, he decided, combined with respectability, was boring.

The manservant knocked once at a cedar door and waited until an impatient yes, yes answered. Hamish signalled for McKenzie to remain in the hallway outside the office as the door opened and they were announced.

Oscar Crawford was clearly not dressed to receive visitors. He wore a buttercup-yellow silk robe over which was another silk robe of the same quality material, this one in forest green. His remarkable white gold hair was just visible beneath his silk candy-striped smoking cap that gave a slight clownish air to a fair complexion ruined by sagging jowls. There were sheaves of paper to the left of his magnificent leather tooled desk and a number of folders secured with ribbon on his right. Before him sat a silver salver containing a selection of small glass bottles that he was studiously frowning at.

‘This is god early for a visitation, Gordon, especially when you come uninvited.’

Hamish sat down in the leather chair opposite, crossed his legs and smiled. ‘Might I have some tea?’ The servant looked from Hamish to his master.

Oscar removed his smoking cap in annoyance, dropping it on his desk. ‘Yes, yes, tea for all. And take this,’ he gestured to the salver, which was quickly removed. ‘The negative aspect of age,’ he said by way of explaining the potions. ‘I see you are still in service, Jasperson.’

Standing at Hamish’s right shoulder, Jasperson nodded.

‘And just as reticent. Well, sit. I don’t need another servant hovering around like one of the infernal flies that inhabit this landscape.’

‘I’m here to make you an offer to purchase Crawford Corner,’ Hamish began, never one to circumnavigate a subject. ‘It is my third such offer on my reckoning and it will be the last.’

Oscar sat back in his chair and joined his fingers together in a peak. ‘I see. And this, after you have absconded with my stud master?’

‘He left willingly.’

Oscar waved his hand dismissively.

William Crawford entered his father’s office, dressed for a day outdoors. The boy was fit-looking and tanned, clearly not the bookworm Hamish expected. Indeed his handshake spoke of a determined confidence.

‘Crawford Corner is not for sale, although we are of course flattered by your offer.’

‘My boy,’ Oscar said by way of introduction, ‘refuses to be parted from the family seat.’

A surge of annoyance shot through Hamish. ‘A lawyer choosing to live up here? On a paltry selection of –’

William’s bland face stiffened. The Crawford’s have interests in more than just land.’

Hamish’s forehead creased into a row of parallel lines, each deeper than the first. He had been insulted by the finest; once by an aide to the Governor for sitting prior to the Queen’s representative at a state dinner. As Hamish reminded the gilded youth at the time, she was not his Queen and he was hungry. As for this young pup, William, well he had some learning to do. ‘And that would be the reason for the selling of 50,000 acres further west some ten years ago to repay a debt for commercial property in Sydney. Yes, I can see how important it is to have interests in more than just land.’ He flicked an imaginary fleck of dirt from his trousers.

Crawford coughed into a white handkerchief. ‘Let us have peace, gentlemen.’

‘My profession,’ William emphasised, ‘allows me a number of choices, Sir, none of which involve selling our land.’

Hamish lifted a formidable eyebrow. ‘You don’t have to justify yourself to me, William. However, if you do intend remaining on this land I would hope that you will appoint a suitable head stockman in your absence so that the property is properly managed.’ Hamish knew he had stepped beyond the boundaries of propriety. For a moment the room was quiet.

William brushed a strand of dark hair from his face. ‘I think you have explained the purpose of your visit, Mr Gordon.’

Hamish ignored the boy. ‘What do you intend to do to rectify your water situation? Diverting water from the bore drain system is illegal. And I will not tolerate the possibility of Wangallon stock dying of thirst because of it.’

William looked directly at his father. Clearly Oscar had not fully briefed his prodigal son on his recent doings.

Hamish continued. ‘Then there is the additional problem of missing stock.’

William’s mouth gaped.

Oscar stood, pushing his chair back with such force that it toppled over, striking a small table. Littered with black and white photographs in gilt-edged frames, all fell to the red carpeted floor.

‘How dare you, Hamish Gordon! You, who built your holding on deceit and stock theft, come here and have the audacity to accuse me of, of … you Scottish upstart. It is an embarrassment to be of acquaintance to you.’

‘I expect reparations for the damage you have done me, Sir. The water has already been diverted back to Wangallon, at my own cost. However, you will be in receipt of an account for the cattle I am missing. Some fifty head, I believe.

‘I’m warning you, Gordon …’

Hamish turned to Oscar’s son. ‘William, I wish you luck in your endeavours.’

‘You damn upstart,’ Oscar yelled. ‘We should have starved you all out of the Highlands when we had the chance.’

It took only the few ill-judged words of an Englishman to send Hamish spiralling back towards the edge of the loch. Winter was coming. The scent of herbage, the season’s last before winter assaulted his nostrils as he looked across at the mounds of stone on the edge of the water. His brothers and sisters lay cradled in the cold clay and rock of his homeland. Beyond him in their one-room hut lay his beloved mother, dead. His family had slaved for the English, died for the English.

Hamish flew from his seat, drew his hardened fist and struck Oscar Crawford in the cheek. There was a crunch, the bruising jar of skin, bone and gristle. The strength of the punch sent the older man tumbling to the ground where he struggled like a floundering yellow-belly, gasping for air. There was a startled gasp from the son. Hamish turned on him at once, readying his fist. Unexpectedly the youth cowered. ‘See what you have bred?’ Hamish glowered at father and son before exiting the office. Barely halting in his stride, he barged past the returning servant, knocking the salver from his hands. Jasperson followed, sidestepping the spilt tea and smashed crockery.

‘Get the horses, McKenzie,’ Hamish growled.

When Hamish turned to face his overseer the muscles around his jawline were bunched, a large vein throbbed powerfully in his neck. ‘The day I take possession of Crawford Corner,’ he spat through gritted teeth, ‘I will burn this house to the ground.’

The men mounted as one and rode out of the homestead garden. Jasperson let Hamish take the lead as they cantered off. ‘Now you will see how such men are made, McKenzie.’ Jasperson’s lip curled upwards as he nodded at the rider in front of them.

The toe of Anthony’s boot struck the gear upwards and he accelerated. The Yamaha motorbike sped along the dirt road. Each bump and pothole on the road jarred his body and sent unwelcome slivers of pain through his right hand. Two of his fingers were strapped. Anthony’s only regret was that he had not hit Jim Macken harder. He revved the motorbike, swallowing the throb of his hand, wishing the Scot had given him the opportunity of throwing two punches instead of one. At the old army bridge spanning the waters of the Wangallon River, he stopped. Beneath him, a muddy swirl moved downstream. There were waterbirds stalking the furthest bank, a lone wallaby and a number of kangaroos having an early morning drink. Anthony pulled the zipper up further on his oilskin and stretched his leather-and-wool encased fingers. The morning was colder than it had looked from Wangallon’s kitchen window.

Restarting the bike he continued on across the bridge and into Boxer’s Plains. With two sleepless nights behind him, he’d spent much of the time trying to decipher how things had become so skewed. His reasoning regarding the development was sound and the inevitability of Jim’s inheritance made his project one hundred per cent correct. Why then was Sarah so damn determined to stop something Wangallon needed? Stubbornness ran in the Gordon family, of that he’d had firsthand experience, and it was true Wangallon had always been predominantly grazing, but the bush was changing and Wangallon needed to move with the times as well.

He knew his girl didn’t like change and in truth, considering the past, he couldn’t blame her. But this was different. They were both trying to protect Wangallon, yet Sarah was acting as if he was the enemy. Somehow everything seemed mightily screwed up. The motorbike startled a mob of kangaroos nibbling near the edge of the cultivation. Immediately the animals turned briefly towards the oncoming noise, then they were off, their muscled hind legs powering them forward, leaving small puffs of dust as they hopped quickly into the safety of some wilga trees. Anthony rode around the edge of the cultivation to where the contractors had been working. He followed their metal track marks in the soft dirt, careful not to land in one of the gaping holes where a tree once stood. Scattered branches and large limbs, the debris from fallen timber, lay strewn in every direction and Anthony found it difficult to pick a path through the tangle of branches. More than once he found himself backing up his bike in order to find a clearer passage. The area was heavily timbered and with new tree growth over the last few years, it was virtually impossible to muster stock out. Anthony doubted if many people had ventured this far into the ridge for years. Angus had fenced off a square of about sixty acres right in the middle of the ridge in the late twenties. It was a smart solution for it stopped stock from hiding within the timbered environs, although Anthony was at a loss as to why he’d simply not had the timber thinned out a little.

The bulldozers were clearing on a face of about five hundred metres. Eventually Anthony reached their start point and rode around the man-made boundary. It struck him how easily a landscape could change. On his right, trees swallowed the countryside while to his left timber lay on the ground like fallen soldiers. Eventually a glint of metal caught his eye and soon the unmistakeable shape of heavy machinery came into view. The two dozer drivers were sitting in the middle of their handiwork in deckchairs.

Anthony got off his bike and tucked his hands into the pockets of his jacket. It was damn cold, but these two blokes were wearing short-sleeved shirts and shorts. ‘G’day. Working on your cruise tan, Bruce?’

‘Almost summery today,’ commented Bruce, the older of the two men, unscrewing the lid on his thermos. ‘Cuppa?’

‘Sounds good.’ Anthony squatted in the dirt as the black tea was poured. Soon he was warming his hands around the lid of the thermos.

‘Five weeks till spring,’ agreed Neville, Bruce’s companion, passing Anthony a milk arrowroot biscuit spread with butter and vegemite.

Bruce took a slurp of tea and licked the topping off his biscuit. ‘Saw that head stockman of yours this morning.’

Neville poured more tea for himself and spread his legs straight in front of him in order to pick up more of the sun’s weak rays. ‘Don’t like him.’

Anthony took a sip of his tea. He could have stood a teaspoon up in it, it was that strong.

‘Yeah, Mrs Kelly wouldn’t have let Ned play with him,’ Neville stated solemnly.

‘He’s not that much of a poor bastard,’ Bruce replied.

Neville shook his head. ‘Met him up at Carlyon’s place before his accident. Wasn’t too bad then.’

‘And now?’ Anthony asked, intrigued.

‘Delusions of grandeur.’

Bruce poured more tea. ‘Well, I don’t mind the poor bastard. He’s got a busted sandshoe for a face and fingers that are no good to any woman.’

‘He’s capable,’ Anthony admitted, draining his tea. ‘And permanent.’ He passed Bruce the thermos lid. The three of them finished up and Bruce packed up his esky, tying a narrow cotton rope around it to keep the broken lid on. ‘Got the ear of your girl, eh? You’ll have to put a stop to that. ’Bout time you two married and had a couple of sprogs. That will keep her busy.’

Neville grinned, displaying a gold front tooth. ‘Ahh, anklebiters. Would have lost an eye for me own little fellas. Course then they grow up and become right little arseholes and you can’t give the buggers away.’

Anthony blinked. ‘Look fellas, I need to stop the work here for a few days.’ It was a tough thing to be pushed into an uncomfortable decision, but if the development was going to cause such a major problem between them, especially with everything else going on, then he would do as Sarah asked – at least for the moment. One of them would have to take a step back before they did further damage to their relationship. Once she returned home he’d talk her around.

Bruce rolled his eyes. ‘Again?’

‘Yeah, the fuel truck’s been delayed,’ he lied. ‘It’s got me buggered, but we’re all out of diesel. And they’re not promising a delivery this week.’

‘Fair enough.’ Bruce heaved his burly frame out of the deck-chair. ‘We’ll go through to knock-off time. Give us a call when you want us back on board. I was hankering for a steak and chips at the Wangallon pub tonight anyway.’

‘No probs. Thanks, mate.’ Anthony shook Bruce’s hand, wincing at the vice-like grip.

‘Got yourself a bit of a fencing job,’ thumbed Neville over his shoulder. ‘Hit a wire back a bit. Old fence?’

‘Yeah, it’s pretty old. We might use that as a bit of a marker and clear up to that. Later on I might thin it out a bit.’

‘No worries. Up to the fencing relic it is,’ Neville confirmed with an excuse for a cough and a string of spittle that landed to sit foaming in the dirt.

Bullet was waiting at the back steps when Anthony arrived home. Surprisingly the dog actually stayed still long enough for a brief pat on the head. Ferret gave a melancholy whine.

‘Missing her, aren’t you, mate?’ Anthony commented, scraping his boots off at the back steps.

As if on cue Bullet looked down the back path. Satisfied that his mistress was not following, he ambled back to the rainwater tank and lay down beside Ferret, a half-chewed boot between them.

‘I’ll tell her you want her home.’

Bullet answered with a snappish bark.