A Changing Land

Tania looked pointedly at his hand. ‘You know what I mean. How is it?’

Matt held both hands up as if examining a sale item that he didn’t want. ‘Buggered.’

‘You miss me?’

Matt looked her up and down. He had to admit Tania was looking pretty damn good. ‘Nope.’

‘Sure you did. Invite me in, Matt. You can make me some lunch and tell me if it’s true that the Gordons are going to lose some of their land thanks to a father that couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.’

Despite a bad sense of deja vu, Matt led the way down the cement path.Claire walked her horse carefully across the paddock, her gloved hands loose on the reins. The morning sun was bright and hot, offering only a few precious minutes before she would need to retire indoors. She needed to escape the dreadful vision in the hallway and the whiff of illness that still encircled her. Yet barely twenty minutes in the saddle and she was exhausted. Her mind kept returning to Hamish’s words, to the black girl entering his room in the dead of night. Once again she wondered if he’d ever truly loved her. She shifted in the side saddle. She was of a mind this morning to pull on a pair of Hamish’s trousers and ride like a man, like she used to, thirty years ago. Instead, convention saw her don a riding suit complete with veiled hat, cropped jacket and black-heeled boots. Ridiculous, she now thought, as her legs and back began to ache, her stomach swelled in anger against her tight corset and the perspiration on her skin formed a sticky barrier next to her clothes. A final muscle twinge in her lower back ended Claire’s thoughts of continuing on and, unhooking her leg from the side saddle, she slipped off the horse to stand in the tufted grass.

‘Claire.’

In the midst of lifting her veil, Claire looked to where Luke was riding towards her. Despite her discomfort and her annoyance at his recent absence, a flutter of pleasure greeted his arrival. His wide-brimmed hat sat laconically on the rear of his head, his hair looked damp and lay plastered to his forehead. Claire lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the homestead, its whitewashed walls shining brightly behind him.

‘Morning ride?’ It was a rare sight to see a woman on horseback around these parts, particularly one garbed as if she were about to join an English hunt. Luke swallowed his amusement. ‘Dressed for the occasion I see,’ he drawled, looking down from his horse, although she cut a fine figure with her snug-fitting jacket and jaunty hat.

Claire finished poking the black netting into the grosgrain ribbon banding the hat. ‘Where have you been?’ They’d not spoken since Christmas Eve, apart from the unsettling glance that had passed between them the day prior to Hamish’s departure. Claire was unsure as how to proceed.

Luke dismounted and fell into step with her. ‘I went trapping.’

She looked at him suspiciously. Luke tied the reins of her horse to his own. ‘I needed you and you weren’t here. Nobody was. Not that I suppose it matters.’ She sniffed. ‘Anyway, we really don’t see you when you’re here.’ Claire began walking towards the homestead.

‘Is everything all right?’ Half-moons of darkness highlighted her eyes. ‘Claire?’ She gave a questioning look that made him sorry for his absence and pleased he was needed. ‘Is it Hamish?’

‘Your father,’ she politely corrected him, ‘has –’

‘Returned from his walkabout?’ He wondered if Crawford Corner was now part of the great rural monolith that belonged to Hamish Gordon. They walked on for some minutes, their slow pace enticing myriad small black flies to land on backs, faces and hands. Their horses shook their manes, swished their tails, causing the flies to rise in a mass and then resettle. Claire pulled the netting down across her face. ‘Two days he was away, with no word. Then he returns, almost a changed man.’ She recalled Hamish’s harsh words – they could not be repeated. She stepped slowly through the grass. ‘I’m worried.’

Luke laughed – the idea of someone being worried about Hamish Gordon was quite a novel thought and he was sure his father would feel the same way.

Claire cocked an eyebrow. ‘Not for him. For Angus.’

‘Angus?’

‘You wouldn’t understand.’ She walked on, her body stiffened by resolve. ‘Sometimes I wish you were more like the rest of us.’

Luke grabbed at her wrist, slowing her walk. ‘What is that meant to mean?’ Beneath her riding jacket was a high-necked white blouse with fine pleats running the length of it. The stark whiteness of the material contrasted vividly with the darkness of the jacket and Luke found himself holding Claire’s wrist for a moment longer than necessary.

‘You’ve always come and gone as you please.’ She stepped over some fallen branches, taking his arm for support. ‘The conventions of society – companionship, respectability, social acceptance – these are meaningless to you. While I on the other hand cultivate this family’s place in society for the benefit of –’

‘Angus,’ Luke finished for her. ‘And you’re wrong, Claire. If things had been different …’ But what could he say? That he too craved the comforting normality of family? Family was something that he’d only glimpsed and most of the time it seemed as if that life never existed at all. A sheen of moisture covered Claire’s fine features. He wondered at how different his life would have been if he’d been boss of Wangallon. ‘You’re wearing my comb.’

Claire glanced at him, her eyelashes fluttering as she looked away.

‘Are you feeling all right?’ Luke asked, slipping a supportive arm around her slim waist as she stumbled.

‘I will be fine once I reach the shade of the house.’ She felt her breath constrict and with renewed energy shook his arm free of her. It was the heat, Claire decided, berating the tightly laced whalebone corset that nipped in her waist and cupped her breasts. ‘I know your father is not what people suppose him to be.’ They reached the gateway and the gravel path leading through Wangallon’s garden to the homestead. ‘You know what he once did?’ Claire began tentatively. ‘The stealing of sheep, cattle, perhaps –’ she hesitated – ‘worse?’ She looked at him directly, searching for the truth.

‘Do you really want to know?’

Claire looked towards the house as if someone may hear them. ‘Yes.’

‘I expect he did what any man did fifty years ago to carve himself a place in this world.’ Except, Luke thought, he did it better and more ruthlessly.

Claire lifted her skirts to climb the stairs leading to the verandah. Luke was his father’s son and whatever she expected to discover she would not hear from this man. There was no one moment that led to her revelation that Hamish Gordon was not as he seemed. It was more an awakening to the attitudes they received when first they ventured out into society as man and wife. It fell to Claire to cultivate female companionship and, by extension, introductions to those members of society she believed her husband should be mixing with. It was a painstaking, lonely process, filled with small slights, whispered innuendoes and strangely missing invitations. Their ostracism coincided with a number of stillborn children, leaving her in such a state of melancholy that she’d condemned herself to being both childless and virtually friendless. Yet her perseverance eventually paid off some years later when a season in Sydney saw their Centennial Park terrace positively flooded with invitations. Suddenly they were in vogue.

It was a well known Sydney matron who whispered sweetly behind the sanctity of her fan at a ball one evening:

Your husband is most charming, Mrs Gordon. I must compliment you on subduing the brigand of New South Wales.

It was such a short statement, yet that one word carried so much potency that Claire would never forget it. And so she had made Hamish promise that however he accrued his fortune, henceforth she wished to hold her head high in public. Indeed they both did the following year when, at the introduction of the doyenne of society, Mrs Oscar Crawford, they were invited to Government House. To Claire’s mind the Gordons’ rise in society had taken far too long; however, having been taken under the rather ample arm of Mrs Crawford, their place would not be rescinded. Yet it came too late to be enjoyed for any length of time. Hamish had drifted apart from her. Although they played at their relationship, only in appearance were they successful. In truth she was like a cat scrabbling with an inanimate toy.

‘Things have been good for the family, Luke. I don’t want anything to jeopardise everything I’ve worked for.’

Luke slipped their horses reins about the smooth railing and, tying a loose knot, joined Claire in one of the wicker chairs ‘You think Hamish has something on his mind apart from the purchase of Crawford Corner?’

‘Crawford Corner?’

At Claire’s repetition of the property name Luke faltered. ‘You didn’t know?’

‘No,’ she replied, smoothing her skirt over her clammy knees. She undid the row of buttons on the jacket of her riding habit, would have escaped to the coolness of her room had she not realised how desperately alone she felt. She’d done her best at being his wife. Rarely had she earned his scorn, except perhaps in the matter of child-bearing. What was it about his man she’d entrusted her love to?

Luke poured her a glass of water from the pitcher on the table, replacing the doily over the top of it to keep the flies out. ‘He has always been changeable in character. You know this. The wonder of it is that you have been happy for so long and for the last ten years or so he has behaved himself.’

‘In matters of business?’

‘Look, the mail has arrived,’ Luke diverted. Knowing the delight Claire received from a newspaper or fashion catalogue, he passed her the bundle sitting on the wicker table. As she sorted through the pile he considered telling her of his plans, of sharing his excitement of his proposed new life in Ridge Gully.

‘Luke, there is one for you.’

The letter was addressed in handwriting unknown to him, although the address given was that of Ridge Gully. He peered closely at the cramped writing, deciphering the name Shaw-Michaels. His chest tightened with excitement. This then was the news of his new life. At the thought he looked across at Claire.

‘They expect Deakin to be elected prime minister again,’ read Claire from the newspaper headlines. ‘Oh, and Dame Nellie Melba is planning on giving a series of concerts this year.’

He sat forward in his chair, opened the envelope. There were two letters inside.

May God bless you, Luke,Although we have never met I imagine you strong and fierce like your father and perhaps a little soft like my daughter, your mother, Rose.Luke glanced down at the signature. It was from his grandmother, his dead grandmother.

‘And what do you think about this, Luke, the government of New South Wales is thinking about reintroducing assisted migration.’

I’ve not been one for travelling nor correspondence so you must forgive me that, as I forgive you. The doctor tells me I’ve not much time though I doubt his knowledge for it only comes from a book and I’ve never placed great store in another’s words. Still if the learned man is right then I best have my affairs in order. It is important for me to safeguard that which was manufactured by my own hands and you have your own responsibilities. Your father is in agreement.My Rose and the little ones departed this life so long ago, God bless them. Visit your mother’s grave for me, say a prayer lad, say good-bye,Your loving grandmotherLuke reread the contents before reading a second letter from his grandmother’s solicitor. He had been left out of her will. The entire amount had gone to some acquaintance of his grandmother’s. Stunned, he reread her letter again. Your father is in agreement.

‘Did you know?’ Luke finally asked when the reality of the letter sunk in. ‘Did you know I’d been robbed of my grandmother’s inheritance?’

‘Inheritance?’ Claire let the newspaper drop to her lap. She was just beginning to feel a little better. ‘What inheritance?’

‘Did you know?’ Luke demanded, his fingers scrunching the envelope.

‘No, no … I had absolutely no idea.’ Claire touched her temples.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure, Luke. What are you talking about?’ Yet she didn’t want to know, not really. There was already too much in her life. In the space of a week she’d discovered she may be pregnant, wished her baby dead, silently admitted to her girlish infatuation regarding Luke, fallen ill and been berated by her adulterous husband. Now there was another element for her brain to contend with, a loneliness that appeared to have crept up on her like a snake and she could have wept with the realisation that her life was a mirage. Claire took the letter with shaking fingers, managed to read the brief contents though the words shifted and weaved into almost unmanageable forms. ‘Your grandmother must have good reason for this, Luke.’

‘My grandmother? I think you are mistaken, Claire. It is my father who has had the final say in this matter. Have you not read that properly?’

‘Of course I’ve read it. I just don’t believe that your father would –’

‘You don’t believe it? It’s there in black and white!’

Claire read the letter again. ‘Luke, I know you’re upset, but you have Wangallon. You are a part of Wangallon, it’s your home. You can’t honestly have wanted to leave here.’ How could she placate him? A wrong had been done, but surely it was not Hamish’s doing. ‘Luke, where are you going?’ His riding boots struck the wooden floorboards sharply as he strode away from her. ‘Luke, please?’ Claire went to follow him.

‘This is the person you married, Claire.’ He turned, took a step towards her. ‘Do you really want to know what he is like? Do you?’

She backed away from his temper.

‘He has stolen, cheated and murdered for his own gain!’ He flung his hands outwards in exasperation, ‘and you worry about respectability, about what people think. You would need at least another generation to dilute what has come before and even then, the name Gordon will always be tainted.’

Ready tears came to Claire’s eyes. She willed them back. ‘Everything your father has done, he has done purely for the wellbeing of his family.’ In reality she wasn’t sure anymore.

‘He has done for himself,’ Luke said sharply. ‘How is colluding with my own grandmother going to help me?’

‘How would it help him?’ Claire countered softly.

‘Look around you, Claire. After Hamish passes, someone is needed to safeguard the property until Angus comes of age.’

Claire couldn’t respond immediately. For as long as she had known Hamish, Wangallon came first, before everything.

Luke snorted. ‘He cares for his own ambition.’

‘That’s not true.’ Claire walked steadily towards him, took his rough, sun-dried hands in hers. ‘It’s not his fault that your mother and brothers died,’ she soothed. ‘As for your inheritance, there must be some good reason why –’ She stopped mid-sentence as his hand stroked her cheek. He was very close to her. No man had come closer except her husband. His hand moved to the nape of her neck. His fingers plied the soft skin. Claire, vitally aware of the need to break free, found herself looking into violet eyes of her husband’s making. It was there, that steely resolve. The unflinching look of a man who knew what he wanted. Claire’s breath caught in her chest. It was not land, money or power that he wanted; at least, not at this moment. Hamish had taught her how to decipher the difference.

‘You are his redemption, Claire. You have chosen to see only goodness in the world.’ Instinctively his arm encircled her waist. ‘Perhaps it is because you were so young when you first came to Wangallon. Or perhaps you feel obliged to him.’ He was oblivious to the sharp escape of her breath as he bent his head and kissed her.

This is wrong her mind screamed. You forget yourself, stop. Yet she couldn’t, not when her arms were pinned so tightly. Eventually she rested her hands against the firmness of his chest and extricated herself from his embrace. Her lungs could barely gather in enough air to speak and she was aware of tears falling to moisten her cheeks, of her lips numbed by pressure and of something far more dangerous, a wanting. She backed away from him.

Luke held out his hand and then let it slowly drop. ‘Tell me this, if not for my father –’

‘If not for your father,’ Claire found herself barely able to draw breath, ‘if not for your father, neither of us would be standing here today.’ She placed her shaking palm against her stomach. ‘Heavens, Luke, what have we done?’

He watched her collapse into one of the wicker chairs, her slim form heaving as tears consumed her. He waited some minutes, unable to decide as to the best course of action. The boundary between them that had been broken would never be crossed again, for he could not stand to see such pain on Claire’s face. Luke looked out towards the garden at the gravel road that led him to and away from this woman whom he had loved since his teenage years. He could not have her, perhaps now he did not want her. For like his own father, Claire burdened him with pain and he was angry for it.

‘My mother was still very much alive when my father decided to become your secret benefactor. I often wonder what he would have done if Rose had not died prematurely.’

Claire looked up from where she sobbed quietly, smoothed the folds of her skirt and wiped carefully at her eyes. ‘What?’ They both knew the words did not have to be repeated. The insinuation was clear.

‘It’s my penance to care for the woman who supplanted my mother.’

With shaking hands Claire removed the tortoiseshell comb from her hair and sat it on the wicker table. If her imaginings had remained just that, she could have gone on. She could have swallowed her pride and somehow set out along the new path Hamish had defined for her. However, she had gone against the natural order of things and in doing so realised that there could be another love beyond husband and wife, beyond right and wrong. Claire straightened her shoulders and walked indoors. The structure of her life was crumbling and she had not the materials to rebuild it.Luke retrieved his grandmother’s letter from where it had fluttered to the scratched floorboards. He folded it carefully, his fingers patiently creasing it into a diminishing square. Finally he shoved it securely into the pocket of his moleskins. He looked out at the trees shimmering in the haze, at the pale lifeless grass swaying meditatively, and experienced the sharp bite of anger that only frustration could create. Removing a plug of tobacco from his pocket, he plied the wad into the semblance of a cigarette, used his thumbs to roll it into a slip of paper and lit it with a flinty match, drawing back heavily. Luke wanted to hit something, hit it so hard that it smashed into a million pieces. The cigarette flared and then calmed itself into a thin stream of smoke. Beside him on the table sat the tortoiseshell comb, his monument to stupidity. He touched the fine prongs, lifted it to his nose and sniffed at the scent of her. Then he let it fall from his fingers to clatter on the wooden boards. Margaret appeared soundlessly and began to gather the discarded newspaper and mail. She looked apologetically at Luke. ‘Mr Gordon wants the mail.’ ‘My father’s here?’ Luke asked, his eyes flicking towards the study window.

Margaret saw the comb lying on the floorboards, picked it up and held it out to him.

‘Mrs Gordon does not want it anymore.’ Luke folded her fingers over it. ‘Take it.’ The girl bit her bottom lip. ‘Take it,’ he said harshly.

Margaret held the comb close to her chest. ‘Thank you, Luke.’

He was reminded of soft rain as she padded, barefooted, away from him, the mail under one arm, the comb clutched to her chest.The Dash 8 aircraft flew low across the countryside. Sarah studied the landscape as they crossed kilometres of green crops, areas being tilled by large tractors pulling wide machinery, and hundreds of cattle and sheep. There were also open bore drains crisscrossing the country, feeding water across the land, dams and tree-shaded waterways. She pressed her head against the window, mesmerised by a mob of kangaroos bounding off into the bush as they approached the airstrip. The animals left a trail of dust that puffed up into balls of dirt. They skirted past trees, reached a fence line and halted in their progress just long enough to squeeze beneath the wires, then they zigzagged across a paddock before finally disappearing from sight into a clump of trees.

Leaning back in her seat, Sarah squeezed her eyes tightly shut and pictured Wangallon; imagined circling above the sprawling homestead with its large garden. There was the vegetable plot, the remains of the property’s ancient orchard and a number of outbuildings, large machinery and worksheds, the jackeroo’s cottage. Further away sat the stables with their original bark and timber interior walls and adjoining horse yards. When she opened her eyes again the plane had landed.

She hurried through the one-room terminal, collected her bag and was one of the first passengers to reach the car park. There was a meeting organised with Jim Macken in three days and Sarah desperately wanted to see Anthony. She’d missed him despite their disagreement and she needed to sit down with him, smooth things over and decide what the best option was. The three men currently in her life all favoured paying out her half-brother and saw benefit in a development of some sort. Maybe it was time to stop fighting everyone.‘So you’re back?’ Anthony was sitting quietly at the table having an early lunch. Sarah shut the back door and dropped her bag. Pleased to be finally home, the excitement drained at his tone.

‘Hi.’

‘Have you eaten?’ His back remained turned towards her.

She’d been ready to swoop on him with a hug. ‘No, but I’ll get something.’ Somehow Sarah didn’t think Anthony was going to make it for her. She busied herself carving a few slices of meat from the leg of mutton on the sink and then buttered the white bread that was almost past eating. ‘It’s good to be home.’ Sarah added meat and tomato sauce.

‘Nice of you to call and let me know you were coming.’ He didn’t look up from his sandwich.

Sarah took a bite. The meat was tough and the bread hard. ‘What happened to your hand?’ The knuckles on his right hand were strapped and a ghastly blue-green bruise spread out from under the narrow taping.

Anthony lifted his hand and turned it slowly, as if only just discovering he was injured. ‘Smacked it in the yards.’

‘Oh.’ She took another bite. ‘Well, I visited Dad.’ The moistened dough clung to her gums and she ran her tongue across her teeth to free the sodden clumps. ‘Mum died.’ She rubbed her eyes, surprised that after so many years she felt so sad.