A Changing Land

‘You don’t get to make demands, Jim. My mother’s ill and Dad has enough stress at the moment.’

By the time they reached the main homestead it was nearing lunchtime. They passed Matt and young Jack walking eight Hereford bulls into the yards. Sarah didn’t slow as she normally would to chat to them. She skimmed her eyes over the lumbering beasts, waving as she continued on to Wangallon Homestead. Wordlessly she parked the Landcruiser and walked up the back path, kicking her riding boots off at the back step. Bullet was there instantly, slithering out from beneath the rainwater tank to give Sarah’s hand a quick lick and bestow upon Jim a low growl.

‘Nice dog.’ Jim reached out to pat him, as he removed his shoes.

‘I wouldn’t,’ Sarah advised. ‘He’s very loyal.’ Bullet wagged his tail at her voice, his head cocked to one side, and then silently began to chew on Jim’s rubber-soled footwear.

Inside the homestead they walked through the kitchen and living areas, Jim pausing at the entrance to the dining room to sweep the room with his eyes. The silver gleamed on the mahogany sideboard, the chandelier sparkled and the various side tables, lamps and oil paintings gave off an aura of aged elegance. Having grown up with her family’s possessions, Sarah appreciated the years of toil that had led to their accumulation whereas Jim was stepping into a world completely different to his own. Having him to stay in the homestead was her first mistake.

‘Who’s that?’ He pointed to the large oil above the sideboard.

‘Hamish Gordon. He founded Wangallon.’ Sarah shivered, there seemed to be a chill in the room. She rubbed her forearms briskly. ‘The other is his second wife, Claire.’

‘She’s a good-looking woman.’

‘They say she managed to civilise Hamish, at least for a while.’

‘Meaning what?’

Sarah hunched her shoulders. ‘If you’d stayed at the pub you would have heard any number of stories.’

They continued through the homestead, passing the reading room and music room before turning left from the main hallway. For some reason Sarah decided to put Jim in the oldest wing of the house. The plaster was cracked and crumbling in spots and the dry seasons combined with the earth’s movement caused the house stumps to push and pull at the floorboards so that any remainder of a flat surface was in memory only.

‘What’s through there?’ Jim pointed at the end of the hallway where a faded blue and green tapestry of the Scottish Highlands hung.

‘It used to lead out past the dining room through to the original covered walkway to the cook house.’ Sarah gestured to a bedroom door. ‘Sorry if it smells a little stale. It needed a bit more of an airing.’ Her apology was automatic and borne more out of politeness than concern. Drawing aside the velvet duck-egg blue curtains, a stream of light entered the room. Everything was blue, the walls, carpet, even the bedspread. It had been her grandmother’s favourite room for she and Angus followed the habits of their forefathers and kept separate bedrooms. Before Jessica, Hamish’s second wife, Claire, claimed it until her untimely death in an automobile accident.

‘Nice,’ Jim commented, gazing out the French doors leading out onto the verandah. ‘You must have thought Scotland very basic.’ He dropped his bag on the floor.

‘Actually I loved Scotland. Your houses are built to withstand the cold. Out here we have large spacious rooms to fight the heat.’ He was standing with his back towards the French doors, the wintery light of early afternoon silhouetting his solid build.

‘You can have a tour of the property in the morning.’ Sarah wanted to add that she hoped it may stop him from making any hasty decisions. ‘I’ll get Matt to take you out.’

‘This is difficult. I still remember the day you left. All this seems surreal.’

Sarah took a step back. ‘Yes. It does.’

‘We were friends once.’

‘Jim, what do you expect of me? You’re only here for your inheritance, otherwise you wouldn’t have bothered coming. Your letter said it all.’ He was staring at her, scrutinising her as if trying to understand the person before him.

‘You’ve grown hard, Sarah Gordon.’

‘I’ve grown realistic, which I should, don’t you think, considering the circumstances.’ Opening a camphor wood chest she took out a thick woollen blanket, setting it on the end of his bed.

‘I thought this would be easier, that you would appreciate my situation.’

‘What? When you don’t appreciate mine?’ She turned on a gold and cream bedside lamp. ‘You know nothing about Wangallon or my life here.’

‘Perhaps not, but I do own a thirty per cent share and I would have thought that even you, Sarah Gordon,’ he emphasised the surname, ‘would appreciate that.’

Sarah rubbed automatically at a smear of dust on the dresser. ‘You come here after discovering you are related and expect a grand welcome and a golden handshake. Where have you been during the last one hundred and thirty plus years of Wangallon’s life?’

‘That’s a damn unfair thing to say. After all it was your father who decided to keep everything secret.’

‘Oh I see, and you were conceived through divine intervention and your mother was physically forced to keep the truth of her child’s father a secret. Please don’t have the audacity to stand there and tell me it’s my father’s fault. Your mother obviously never had any intention of revealing who your father was and Dad didn’t even know your mother was pregnant when he left Scotland.’ Sarah’s chest heaved. She could have said much more, although Jim was already looking shocked. ‘You didn’t know that?’

Jim paled. ‘No.’

Sarah thought of her mother’s indifference during her childhood. Jim’s existence was only part of the cause for it. Sue Gordon had also taken a lover and after his accidental death, she doted on their love child, Cameron. If Jim was intent on recriminations, he could have a lesson in blame apportioning. She could ill afford to feel sorry for him. ‘I’ll leave sandwiches in the fridge for you.’ That was the best she could offer. She certainly wasn’t going to do his cooking. ‘There’s space in the wardrobe if you need to hang anything and if you need water, use the brass tap in the kitchen. It’s rainwater. The rest of the house is running on dam water at the moment. We haven’t had rain for a while.’

Sarah shut the bedroom door and looked across the hallway. Diagonally opposite were two bedroom doors – one once belonged to her great-grandfather, the other to his first wife, Rose. She opened Rose’s door tentatively. Inside was a washstand with a matching ceramic bowl and water jug, an old wardrobe, dresser and a bed. The yellow curtains were drawn closed and the room smelled musty. Sarah sprayed some lavender scent about the room. It was a custom her grandfather had taken to and now the lavender scent in its plastic bottle was a permanent fixture on the dresser. Some months ago she’d found herself walking straight up the main hallway, only to detour into Rose’s room. Now the airing and scenting of the room formed a part of her weekly routine. Sarah smoothed the creased pale pink bedspread and left the door slightly ajar to air.

Next door was her great-grandfather’s room. Sarah’s fingers hovered over the doorknob, before clutching at the tarnished brass to turn it. Nothing happened. She turned it again but the door wouldn’t budge. Strange. Intrigued enough to consider placing her shoulder against the aged cedar and giving it a good hard shove, she reconsidered. Only once had she stepped across the threshold into Hamish’s room and even then her grandfather had led the way. Sarah recalled an almost overwhelming male scent and glimpses of dark furniture, fluttering curtains and a yellowing photograph hanging crookedly on the wall. Angus had tutted in annoyance before steering Sarah out of the room.

Hamish achieved almost folklore proportions when Sarah was little. To her it seemed that the strength of his person had permeated every atom of Wangallon. The position of every building, yard and fence division had been planned by him, and his pain staking plans and details of the management of the property were all carefully recorded in copious leather-bound ledgers. Angus had packed them away for safe-keeping in an old tin trunk. One day, Sarah promised herself, she would read them. Taking a step back, she glanced from her great-grandfather’s room across the hallway to where Jim was. She needed a plan. Any plan. She wondered what Angus would do.

Hamish and Angus walked through the yard of rams. An easterly kept the sheep-refined dirt flying. It sneaked into crevices, swirling into the whorls of ears so that it took a persistent finger to clean out the sweat-moistened gluck. Angus breathed hot air through the handkerchief tied about his nose and mouth and glared defiantly at every ram turning towards him in interest. Having been knocked over last year, he knew the pain of a broken rib. At the gate, he stamped his foot in reply to a ram’s cloven-hoofed annoyance and was relieved when they finally approached the drafting race.

A row of peppercorn trees overhung the race, providing some shade, and beneath the largest tree on a rotted stump sat Boxer, sweat running down his face. Boxer swiped his arm across his mouth, took a swig of water from the canvas bag hanging off a branch above him and greeted Hamish with a broken-toothed excuse for a smile. Wetherly jumped the race easily and met Hamish halfway across the yard. Another Aboriginal stockman, Harry and the Scottish boy, McKenzie, waited nearby. Andrew Duff barely tipped his hat.

Hamish studied the rams pushed tight in the narrow race. The vibe from the men was strained. It was to be expected with the recent changes, however he wouldn’t tolerate any attitude – no one was indispensable.

‘An ordinary day for classing,’ Wetherly noted.

Hamish ignored him. ‘No need for you to be here, Boxer,’ he said kindly.

Boxer looked around the yard. ‘Long time dead, Boss, and mebbe you still need old fella.’

Hamish nodded. ‘Maybe.’

‘I’ve always been a firm believer in keeping sheep out of the yards on days such as this,’ Wetherly persevered. ‘It does a fleece no good to be subjected to such dusty conditions.’

‘Then you won’t find it a problem ensuring the rams are taken back to their paddock as soon as possible,’ Hamish answered curtly. Already the big animals panted and snorted, their curly horned heads catching on their neighbours or becoming wedged over the top of the wooden rails of the race. Hamish walked to the lead.

‘I’d be happy to do that,’ Wetherly offered, shadowing Hamish as he parted wool over a ram’s shoulder.

Hamish brushed the wool closed gently with the palm of his hand. ‘I’m classing out thirty of the better rams to be joined with a mob of maiden ewes.’

Angus regarded Wetherly with a doubtful incline to his head and repeated what his father had recently told him. ‘They’re a particularly good drop.’

‘And you’re figuring on some growthy lambs by the spring after the ewes are shorn,’ announced Wetherly, inserting his foot between father and son so that he slipped in beside Hamish.

Hamish spat dust from his mouth. ‘Keep your head clear, Angus. Plenty of men have been injured in the past, either having been knocked over in the yards, as you well know, or headbutted while leaning over the race.’ Behind Hamish, McKenzie followed with the raddle. ‘Give it to Wetherly,’ Hamish barked. That would take the new stud master down a peg or two. Wetherly marked a line of blue down the muzzle of the selected animal. Hamish parted the wool on the side of a large ram and beckoned Angus closer. ‘Good staple length and colour. See that whiteness?’

‘Good growthy size and height about him too,’ Wetherly added.

Hamish continued on down the race to the end. Boxer then drafted the classed rams out the top end through a pivoting gate, sending the selected rams to a yard on the left and the remainder to the right. Once the race was empty, McKenzie, Andrew and Harry filled it from the adjoining yard at the other end. Hamish classed six pens of rams and, finally satisfied with his selection, ordered them to be walked back to their new paddock at dust. He didn’t intend joining them until March but was a stickler for rotating mobs of sheep. He believed rotational grazing assisted with nutrition, disease prevention and stopped paddocks being eaten out.

The men moved the selected rams into another yard. There was little talk between them as they whistled their dogs up, pushing the disgruntled rams through a narrow gateway. The last twenty head ran in the opposite direction, stamping their feet in a combined show of anger and agitation. McKenzie walked in the opposite direction to the way the milling rams needed to head. The sheep ran back and quickly joined the mob.

Hamish gave the slightest of nods. ‘Well, McKenzie,’ he asked, ‘what did you learn?’

‘They should be tight in the race so as not to cause injury, Boss. But not so tight that they might go down and s-suff-’

‘Suffocate?’ Angus finished.

‘Yeah, suffocate,’ agreed McKenzie.

‘There’s a bit more to it than that, boy,’ Wetherly pronounced.

Hamish looked McKenzie up and down. ‘Speak to Jasperson about some decent boots.’ Half the sole appeared missing off one. ‘And when you get them, polish them. The leather will last longer. And don’t leave them out in the sun – quickest way to ruin them.’

‘Yes, Mr Gordon.’

‘So that will be all?’ Wetherly asked with an imperious tone. His face carried a streak of blue from the raddle.

Hamish grunted. ‘You, Tambo and Andrew can walk the rams back.’ Across the yard one of the Aboriginal stockmen fell over in the dust of the yard. McKenzie was laughing, his stocky leg stuck out like a low hurdle.

Hamish wiped at the dust layered across his face and sat down at his desk. There were papers to be locked away, including the thick envelope on his desk. The letter written with the unstudied elegance of an educated man outlined the circumstances of Lorna Sutton’s demise. Luke’s grandmother had passed in her sleep, having partaken of a five-course dinner the preceding evening. Hamish lifted his brandy glass in mock salute. It was nearly fifty years since he’d first set eyes on Rose Sutton, Lorna’s only child. Mistakenly Hamish believed that the young girl would give him a measure of respectability, instead Lorna had played him at his own game: Rose was the daughter of a whore.

The fabric of their marriage was unceremoniously revealed when Hamish learnt of his mother-in-law’s activities and Rose gradually became aware of how her new husband was acquiring his wealth. Yet Hamish still believed the marriage could have endured were it not for Rose’s unforgiving nature and delusions of grandeur. And then of course she formed a child’s attachment to an Afghan trader.

Leaving his reflections behind, Hamish returned to the letter. The solicitor outlined in detail Lorna’s substantial legacy. There was the fine brick residence in Ridge Gully, a large number of household items including solid silver cutlery, candelabra, crystal stemware and no less than two fine English dinner services, as well as a collection of oil paintings. The inventory extended to her immaculately maintained stables: three geldings, four mares and a fine buckboard. Hamish inclined his head upwards to Lorna. His decision to make her the owner of the emporium and provide her with his Ridge Gully home had not been ill-advised. She had been well paid for the service requested of her following Rose’s departure to Wangallon.

Hamish reread a copy of the letter he’d made from the original, mailed some weeks prior.

Dear Mr Shaw-Michaels,

I was deeply saddened to learn of the passing of Lorna Sutton. In regards to her last will and testament I would direct that the 3,000 pounds bequeathed to my eldest son, Luke Gordon, be willed instead to Mrs Elizabeth Sutton Russell. These instructions are made on the strict understanding that on no account will my name be brought to Mrs Russell’s attention and that to all intents and purposes Mrs Russell was the original and single beneficiary of Lorna Sutton’s will. I make these instructions conditional on your firm’s continued association with Mrs Russell now and into the future and declare to have no interest now or in the future in Lorna Sutton’s will. You will be recompensed accordingly for your services, Sir.

Yours sincerely

John Shaw-Michaels had been Hamish’s solicitor for many years and was intimately involved with the particular machinations that built Wangallon. Folding the letters, Hamish unlocked the tin chest in his study and deposited the paperwork carefully inside. If Luke were to receive the measly 3,000 pounds willed to him and not the emporium, he would discover the majority of the estate had been verbally gifted to someone else nearly three years ago. Rose’s death had closed a door on that part of his life and ensured an impenetrable succession plan. Hamish thought only momentarily of Luke. His eldest was bound to Wangallon and the future, not a past that could dislodge the natural order of things.

Anthony sat the chequebook on the bonnet of his Landcruiser and wrote the figure down carefully. Even though he was convinced his actions were correct, it was a lot to part with, especially when he was taking full responsibility for the project. Tearing the cheque free he passed it to the contractor. They had worked twelve-hour shifts to get the new cultivation ready for planting. All they needed was a good fall of rain. Three inches minimum was required to plant a summer crop. Anthony had already discussed the specifics with an agronomist and although he’d advised to wait until next year, he was determined to plant 1000 acres to grain sorghum and fallow the remaining cultivation until next year. By then Anthony hoped to have more acreage cleared and be ready to plant wheat. He looked at the landscape around him. It was the same over most of Wangallon. The little grass that was left was brittle. What the lack of rainfall started, the cold of winter finished. He needed good rain to plant.

‘Thanks, mate,’ Colin Harris grinned as his grease-smeared hands imprinted themselves with an inky stain of ownership on the pale blue paper. ‘When do you reckon you’ll want us back?’

Anthony looked across the freshly cultivated grassland in the direction of where the two bulldozers were working: stage two of his project. Once the trees were knocked down, they then had to be raked into piles and burnt. ‘It’ll be at least a month before we have a block squared off and ready for ploughing. I’ll give you a call in a few weeks and let you know how we’re travelling.’

‘Sounds good. And everything’s okay now?’

Anthony knew Colin was referring to Sarah’s instructions for all work on Boxer’s to stop. ‘Yep, fine. As I said, unless you hear direct from me, Colin, everything goes ahead as planned.’

As the contractors packed up their gear, Anthony drove around the edge of the new cultivation. The offset discs had dug deep into the ground, bringing up buried logs, old branches and sticks. These would have to be picked up by hand, placed into piles and burnt before a sowing rig was brought onto the cultivation. It was another costly job and one that would need a team of good stick-pickers.

At the opposite end of the new cultivation two dozers crawled slowly through the scrub. A clump of old belah trees was left standing nearest him and such groupings were scattered over stage one of the development. There were other spots on this initial 5,000 acres that he’d personally marked out to be left undisturbed. It was pointless clearing ridgy country, for the soil was too hard-packed to be any good for cropping; and it was important to leave scattered stands of trees, both for the wildlife and livestock. He was also conscious of the need to ensure the continuation of as much of the natural habitat as possible, having been reared on the yet unproven theory that trees attracted rain. To that extent belts of trees would be left where possible across the entirety of Boxer’s Plains.

From the esky on the passenger seat, Anthony pulled a mutton and tomato sauce sandwich free of its plastic wrap. Since his argument with Sarah in the garden, his vehicle had become both his office and sometime home. He bit hungrily into the doughy bread, pouring black tea from his thermos. A 5 a.m. start borne of a desire not to face Sarah made for a long day, especially when he was waiting for dark before returning. Well, he had his wish. The sky was striped with the colour of cold steel, the paddock darkening as if a blanket had been thrown over the landscape. He finished his sandwich.

The Landcruiser bumped across the bridge, shuddered as a tyre hit a pothole and then swerved to miss a wallaby. Of course Anthony knew he should be going straight back to Wangallon, but the thought of facing Sarah on Jim’s first night was more than a little off-putting. Jim Macken was legally entitled to his inheritance. Anthony could only hope that Sarah would be able to come to grips with losing part of Wangallon, for even with this current project underway there was no possibility of borrowing all the money required to pay Jim out. All Anthony knew was that they needed to increase productivity and quickly. The only positive aspect of Jim’s arrival was that he would take all of Sarah’s attention, so hopefully the work on Boxer’s Plains could continue on without further stoppages.

Best they have a bit of time together, Anthony decided. Besides, he wasn’t in the mood to meet the man; a man who had as much right as him to be in the Wangallon Homestead. What he really needed was a beer and the bright forgiving eyes of the young backpacker Anastasia Kinder, with her gentle voice and general disinterest in all things farming. Besides which it was $12 roast night at the pub.

Matt drove away from Wangallon Homestead to the refrain of barking dogs. In the rear-view mirror he watched the Scottish ring-in walk slowly up the back path to the house, his head continuing to swivel from side to side. The boy didn’t miss a trick during their morning tour and asked questions of him to the point of exhaustion. Matt continued on past the two orange trees, the remains of the once impressive orchard and the site of an old timber hut that some old Chinese man by the name of Lee lived in eons ago. Jim Macken was not at all what he’d imagined. The boy was tall, broad shouldered and clearly had a bit of nous behind that freckled face. However, he was certainly missing one thing. He didn’t have the presence of a Gordon. He blended in with the rest of the population like a soldier ant. Strange that. Dodgy breeding, he concluded. The only thing that would make Jim stand out in a crowd was money, which was clearly why the boy had flown halfway around the world.

Matt was aware of the stipulation in Angus’s will regarding the time frame for Jim to be told of his inheritance. Angus had hoped Sarah and Anthony would be married and have consolidated their working relationship on the property before Jim’s arrival. Up ahead, two emus crossed the dirt road, their long necks lengthening as they moved from a stately walk to a disturbed trot. They ducked through a stand of box trees and disappeared quickly from view. Matt accelerated, turned the radio up and twisted the knob until a Glen Campbell number came on. He listened to the lyrics for some time until his thoughts took him back to the days after Angus’s return from hospital after nearly being killed by a rogue bullock.

They were sitting on the front verandah of Wangallon Homestead, Angus sprawled in an old squatter’s chair, his left leg flung out over one of the extendable arms. Matt was smoking, flicking his ash into an ancient-looking brass spittoon, occasionally looking over his shoulder towards the oldest of the bedrooms that led out onto the verandah. Old houses gave him the creeps. He cradled a glass of beer in his injured hand, his mind still coming to terms with what Angus was telling him. The old patriarch had hand-picked Anthony from a short list of possible jackeroos years earlier and his judgement was rewarded with the lad having risen through the ranks to become manager. Angus explained that back then Anthony’s selection was about finding a suitable marriage partner for Sarah. Angus knew the girl’s strengths and figured that with Sarah and her brother, Cameron, living on Wangallon the place would go on for at least a couple of generations. Fate, however, had interceded and the boy had died.

Angus poured himself another shot of straight whisky and drained the glass. He offered Matt a highly coveted management role on Wangallon.

‘I’ve done my homework, Matt. The Carlyons speak extremely highly of you, as they would after twenty-eight years’ service – they were sorry to see you go.’

Matt stretched out his injured hand, recalling how once he could pretty much do anything: Now his ability was limited to stock work, and more managerial at that.

‘I knew your father, Matt, honest as the day was long and I trusted him. My solicitor, Frank Michaels, agrees with my decision.’

At the word solicitor Matt straightened his back. He never had taken to men with soft hands who wore suits for a living. He took a gulp of beer.

‘After I’ve gone I need you to watch over the young ones.’

Matt opened his mouth, stifled a belch. Angus quieted him with a shake of his head.

‘I need the property safeguarded against the vagaries of youth. There is no one else equipped for the role. My own son is tied to a woman with Alzheimer’s, among other problems.’ Angus sloshed amber fluid into his glass from a silver-topped decanter. ‘Too weak anyway. Never had the gumption. Do you accept?’

Matt struggled to comprehend what was being offered as Angus topped up Matt’s beer glass from a long neck.

‘As I said, the need may never arise. It will never be yours, though if you watch over her, monitor those who are left to run her after I’m gone, you will be handsomely rewarded.’

Matt felt the stirrings of a cramp in his buggered hand.

Angus leant towards him. ‘The thing is, Sarah’s smart but she’s a woman. Eventually there will be a fifth generation of Gordons and she’ll have her hands busy with anklebiters. In my opinion, in a good fifty per cent of cases it’s the men who should be rearing the young’uns.’ Angus took a good slurp of whisky and belched. ‘Never affected the breeding numbers of the emus doing it that way. What was I saying? Oh yes, Anthony’s morally strong; probably got too much of a dose in that regard. But, and it’s a big but, he’s not a Gordon.’ He curled his fist into the palm of his hand for emphasis. ‘He doesn’t have the attachment to the property that a Gordon does and I doubt he could comprehend it.’ He picked his nose. ‘How could he? One grandfather worked on the Snowy Mountains Hydro-Electric Scheme among other jobs, the other was a second-generation grazier from Western Victoria. He was a superb card player – always the sign of a wasted life – who lost his fortune in the fifties and then promptly shot himself. As the younger of two brothers the Monaro family property wasn’t large enough to sustain all of them. Anthony was the one who had to leave. So –’ Angus positioned his backside more comfortably in the hard canvas of the squatter’s chair – ‘although Wangallon is the only job he’s ever had and I know Anthony loves the place, I doubt he’d do anything to protect it; at least not the way I want it protected. I’ll bet my dodgy prostate on that. If anything he’ll always lean towards his moral convictions and put business first, not the land. And therein lies the quandary for Anthony, Matt. You can’t have one without the other. I don’t want the drive for the almighty dollar to destroy what my family’s built. I want Sarah’s children to inherit the property in its entirety. The boy’s always had an ego. All I’m saying is keep Anthony in check.’

‘Ah, that’s fairly loose,’ Matt replied.

‘Loose? In my day loose was a woman on war rations in dark lipstick and too much perfume. Stand them opposite a Yankee officer holding a packet of silk stockings, and that’s loose.’

Matt figured that was about all the instruction he was going to receive.

Angus proceeded to explain how he would be paid monthly in his employ as head stockman, but that a separate bank account would also be set up in Matt’s name. ‘Call my solicitor if and when the time comes, Matt, and remember, if there are any problems you are employed with the mandate to protect Wangallon.’

Matt looked at his injured fingers. In the years to come it was possible his hand would be useless. He was a bush man. He couldn’t end up in an old man’s hospice, broke and sitting with a bunch of buggered old bastards in God’s waiting room. ‘Sarah, you mean?’ Matt confirmed.

‘Yes, Sarah and one other, Matt. You see my granddaughter has a half-brother, and a Gordon can’t be turned aside. Frankly I’m at odds with bringing the boy into the fold although I would like to die knowing that I have done the right thing by him. And the acknowledgement of his existence will go some way to purging the mistakes of the past.’

‘Mistakes?’

Angus waved a bony finger. ‘Some things are best buried with a generation’s passing. In this case, mine.’

Matt pulled up outside his house. His acceptance of this job was borne out of both financial need and intrigue; besides, who wouldn’t have agreed with Angus Gordon? He merely needed to abide by the solicitor’s instructions. Basically he was required to keep an eye on things and make sure they headed in the right direction. So far this current dry spell had been the first test. Quite frankly, being a little more adamant and putting Anthony offside didn’t bother him in the slightest. His best interests were served by protecting Wangallon and Sarah. Besides which he figured he could hardly be fired. Matt pushed his hat back off his forehead and scratched at an itch that was part imagination and part a need for action. Then the thought came to him. If he was being paid to ensure Wangallon ran smoothly by watching over the current custodians, was anyone watching him?

Despite his avowed avoidance of all things spiritual, Matt looked up into the winter washed blue of the sky. This is just plain stupid, he reprimanded himself. He needed to call Toby Williams and confirm the mustering of the first herd of cattle for the stock route. Ahead a willy-willy of dust spiralled upwards from the road, carrying dust and bits of spindly blow-away grass. The wind had risen and changed direction. It was heading towards Wangallon Homestead.

Angus watched his father as Hamish continued writing the day’s activities in the station ledger. He’d been standing quietly for some minutes and the very act of not disturbing the scratching noise of ink on paper had made him desperate to move. He concentrated instead on a strip of light as it squeezed its way through the gap in the burgundy curtains. The sliver gradually decreased in intensity and the nearby kerosene lamp overcame the weakening daylight. Having only been in front of his father’s wide desk previously, this perspective revealed a new world. He imagined Jasperson receiving his orders here, discussions regarding staff being made and money being counted. It was, Angus decided, a far better side of the desk to be on. Across the room a wall of books, stacked row upon row, reached to the ceiling. There was a wooden ladder with which to reach those books most out of reach, and an old armchair made of used wooden packing cases and covered with a dull red material. His mother hated that chair. She called it an old ugly thing. However there were some things that Angus knew his father would not let go of. There was the armchair, a chest of drawers in his bedroom made from packing cases with sawn off cotton reels for handles, and there was the memory of his brother Charlie, Angus’s uncle. These three things, like the founding of Wangallon itself, had come before Angus and his dear mother, Claire. In fact there had been a whole other family before them, of which only his half-brother, Luke, remained as proof that they had ever existed. Angus dropped his eyes to the tin chest sitting next to the battered armchair, its padlock tempting him with a tarnished keyhole grin.

Hamish poured brandy from a crystal decanter into a glass and checked his fob watch. ‘How is it possible that –’

Jasperson gave his customary three knocks on the study door and waited for Hamish’s voice to enter. ‘My apologies, Boss, there was a problem …’

Hamish waved away the explanation. ‘Are you listening, Angus?’

Angus nodded, clamping his lips together in his best impression of concentration. It was a look that required much practising and having recently discovered the effectiveness of it he now realised he would have to be careful not to overuse it. Still, it was terribly hard to listen to his father when he could be with Luke, shooting wild ducks.

‘This, then, is the area of concern.’

Jasperson and Angus looked squarely at the map spread out on the desk, the curling corners of which were held in place by large polished rocks. Wangallon’s boundary was marked by black ink with various paddocks outlined and named in his father’s tight handwriting. Their newest acquisition, now known simply as West Wangallon, hung like a small branch off a mighty tree. The purchase of the block had only been completed eight months ago, yet already the extension on the bore drain had been completed, it was fully stocked and a one-room timber hut had been built for the new boundary rider. His father’s thick finger drifted to the far corner of the western boundary in the direction of the big river.

‘This area here.’ His forefinger encircled the area.

‘It’s not ours.’ Angus clamped his mouth shut. He knew that the Crawford family had owned their land before even Wangallon existed, although it was difficult to believe such things, for having been read the Bible by his mother he was of the firm opinion that Wangallon had been created on the eighth day. His father cleared his throat, ran his fingers along the length of his moustache. Angus had never known him to look any different; he remained sun-blackened, with thick lines radiating from his violet eyes, lines that grew deep on occasion like the cracks that appeared in the black soil of their land when the rain was long in coming.

‘Crawford tried to poach some of our men earlier in the year. And then at Christmas there were other problems. They cut off our water and they have some of our stock. In any case as you can see our boundary runs here to Crawford Corner where the two properties adjoin. The river runs away from us and this part of Wangallon,’ he tapped the map with his forefinger, ‘is left to depend on the bore drain for stock-watering purposes. Crawford knows this.’

Jasperson pointed at the map. ‘Crawford didn’t extend the bore drain on his side of the river, so of course when it gets dry –’

‘He steals our water,’ Angus said triumphantly.

‘Exactly. You’re coming to an age, Angus, where you need to have a grasp of how things work in the bush. In the years to come when I’m not around, you’ll have to listen to the advice of others. Listen –’ he tapped his son’s chest, the action sending Angus backwards – ‘However, when you are in charge of Wangallon, you make the final decision.’

Angus rubbed his chest as his father rolled up the large map and secured it with a piece of thin red ribbon.

‘There is only one simple rule to remember. Look after Wangallon, protect her at all costs and she in return will look after you.’