A Changing Land

Lauren lifted the olive green skirt seconded from the washing pile and pointed each of her feet in turn. Although patched with mismatched leather, the stitching was barely noticeable. Lauren had spent a brain-numbing hour polishing the leather with bees wax so that her shoes were glossy, and even her repaired gloves were benefiting from the spit and polish her mother had so industriously undertaken.

‘And you’ve food?’

Clearing the dirty dishes, soiled nappies and needle and thread to one end of the table, Lauren opened the small traveller’s bag. Inside were two changes of smalls, a new skirt made from the length obtained at the store before Christmas, a white blouse, her hair brush and a loaf of bread wrapped in calico. Her waterbag hung on the packing case chair nearby.

‘Good. Now you’ve remembered everything I’ve told you, girl.’

Considering her mother’s instructions were now scalded in her brain, Lauren longed to say no. ‘Yes, Mother. I leave now; that will give me a good two hours of daylight by which time the full moon will be up and I’ll be within Wangallon’s boundary. I’ll find somewhere to camp and not move until daylight. That way I won’t lose my way.’

‘Good. Follow the tracks, travel slowly and arrive exhausted. That way they’ll be compelled to look after you.’ Mrs Grant lifted the pot and sat it back on the hearth.

‘Yes, Mother.’

‘And don’t leave once you’ve decided which one you’re having. It will be months before the minister returns. By then we might be ready for a wedding and a christening.’

Lauren grinned.

Mrs Grant sat the lavender water in her daughter’s bag and added a bottle of cod liver oil. ‘Have you everything, girl?’

‘I think so, Mother.’

‘Good. Give me a heave with the log then will you.’

Lauren walked outside and pushed at the great length of timber that poked through a hole in the hut’s wall. Inside her mother positioned the burning end of it over the fire.

‘Then go with my blessing and send word when you’re ready for me to join you.’ Her mother sat a battered straw hat upon her head and nodded goodbye.

Lauren mussed the hair of her two siblings in a brief farewell and, with her bag and water over her shoulder, traipsed out to the waiting dray and the broken-mouthed horse. A buckboard would have been preferable. Leather seats were more to her liking. Throwing her bag into the tray she hoisted her skirts and climbed aboard. She looked about the dusty street ready to give a practised nod to anyone stickybeaking at her departure. Regretfully there was no one around. Lauren shoved at the hat perched on her head and with a jut of her chin flicked the reins. She’d never had time for the folks of Wangallon Town anyway. The dray trundled out into the middle of the dusty street. Lauren didn’t plan on returning or contacting her family again unless her plans went astray. If a lady such as herself had plans to better herself, first she had to extricate herself from those who could only be a continual reminder of her less than impressive past.Angus wasn’t quite sure about running away now he was about to do it. It was hot and sticky and the length of the day’s heat made him weary and wishing for bed. Rivulets of sweat tumbled down his back and he wriggled at the hot itch of it, irritated by the closeness of the air. Now he understood why his father always left in the middle of the night, returning either by midmorning or in the cool of the late afternoon. The moon had already risen as he stepped off a log and mounted Wallace. His horse gave a gentle whinny and shook his neck like a frill-necked lizard. Crickets were calling out and, as he walked Wallace out past the stables, Angus looked over his shoulder as the familiar building began to grow distant. He was pleased for the guiding light of the moon and for a land he knew equally well, whether day or night. Yet when he passed the ridge that was the dividing point between the homestead and the creek he reminded himself of why he was leaving and the basis of his plan.

Wangallon Town was his first stop. Once there he figured he could speak to some of the townsfolk about some form of employment. He didn’t need much money, just enough to buy a bit of food for he intended to spend his nights under the stars with Wallace. Eventually he hoped his father would recognise that he had some ability as a stockman, even if he was a bit small, and decide not to send him away to boarding school. Besides, why would he want to go to the Kings School? He wasn’t going to be a king and he certainly didn’t want to meet any boys that were going to be kings.

He picked at the bread in the saddlebag, patted the hunk of hessian-wrapped meat and the bundle of flour. The thought of Mrs Stackland going crook at one of the maids for his thieving made him giggle. Across the moonlit landscape a number of shapes came into focus. Wallace pricked his ears. Angus figured they were some of their Aboriginal stockmen out hunting, however he recalled his father had sent them all mustering a couple of days ago. Intrigued, Angus gave the reins a flick and Wallace broke into a trot.

There was no breeze and his vision was partially obscured by trees that peppered the countryside. Whoever it was galloped away from him and there were at least three men. ‘Come on, horse.’ Angus pulled his hat down low, leant forward in the saddle and nudged Wallace in the ribs. The horse sped off like a whirlwind. Ill-prepared, Angus let out a yell before twisting the reins about his fingers. Wallace galloped over the ground, the eerie light of the moon-mottled bush merging together in a blur of hot rushing air. Angus found it difficult to keep steady in the saddle. His small body bounced from left to right and he became worried he would lose his grip and fall. He pulled his knees tight against Wallace’s flanks and tugged on the reins to the left. Like magic the horse followed his instructions. He leant back on the galloping animal, entwined his fingers through the horse’s mane and pulled hard. It wouldn’t do any good if he galloped straight past them like one of those new fangled automobiles he’d seen in a catalogue.

‘You damn recalcitrant,’ he yelled, copying his father. Wallace slowed to a trot.The moon, having risen to a point above the tree line, illuminated the country in a veil of white as the three riders walked their horses through box and ironbark trees. The horses moved easily through the light-flooded grasses, barely pausing in their strides as the trees grew thicker. A belt of belah indicated they had reached country subject to flooding and soon the traveller’s moon shadows were lost among the close-knitted trees as they weaved through and around the woody plants. Hamish rode ahead of Mungo and one other stockman, Harry. He ducked beneath a low branch and caught his face and hat in a mess of sticky web, a large bush spider scrambling away in fright. He wiped the tacky threads on his thigh.

At midnight, with the moon suspended directly overhead, Hamish halted. Boxer, unusually reticent about joining Hamish on this escapade, had passed on his trail suggestions to his son Mungo, and the boy now turned from the agreed route mapped out days ago.

‘Are you sure you know where you’re going?’ Hamish asked with a low growl as their steady pace led them through coolibah and brigalow timbers. One of the horses whinnied. There was the sound of equine teeth mouthing at a bit. Every noise seemed to be magnified by the night’s stillness as twigs and leaf litter crunched and the soil became sandier in composition.

Mungo coughed, masking the noise with a cupped hand. Hamish sensed trouble brewing and wondered at Mungo’s ability, having been unable to prevent Luke’s spearing by the renegade warrior down south. A quiver settled unpleasantly in his stomach and he turned his neck from left to right. They were not the only ones travelling stealthily under guidance of the moon. Having worn the cloak of the hunted, one never forgot the feeling. At a small clearing they waited silently, their carbine rifles loaded and aiming in the direction Mungo pointed.

The noise of the unknown intruder carried through the air for some minutes; the steady clop clop and the crackle of leaf litter growing louder. The horses in the clearing shifted uneasily. Hamish reined in his mount, drew his rifle tightly to his shoulder and touched his finger to the trigger as Mungo held up his forefinger to signal one rider approaching. The moon shone down upon them like an encircling spotlight, making the timber look dark and forbidding as they backed their horses towards the shadows.

A lone figure entered the clearing. Hamish drew his forefinger down on the trigger as Mungo raised his hand. It was Angus.

‘Damn it, boy. What are you doing? Do you want to get yourself killed?’ Hamish rode forward, intent on chasing the boy away, but Angus was whispering to Mungo and giving practised gestures with his hands.

‘What is it?’ Hamish drew his horse close.

Mungo held up his hand, pointed to his right, indicated a circling motion. Hamish nodded and doubled back in the direction they’d come, Harry and Angus following. Dismounting, Mungo examined the soft imprints they left in the sand and then very carefully flicked dirt across both their entrance to and exit from the clearing. Any reasonable tracker would easily decipher Mungo’s camouflage attempts however the buying of time was a valuable commodity.

‘Well?’ Hamish was waiting near a large coolibah tree, his rifle in his hands. They were close to the edge of the river where the force of previous floods had eroded the bank to a steep-sided drop. Angus stood to one side, his young eyes wide with anticipation. Harry looked wary.

‘Someone track us, Boss,’ Harry stated.

‘Crawford,’ Hamish hissed. He’d not expected the fool of an Englishman to guess at his plan. It was impossible to warn Jasperson.

Mungo disagreed. ‘Not whitefellas, Boss. Blackfellas.’

Hamish looked at his son sitting astride Wallace. ‘You must leave,’ he said in a low voice. ‘You were a young fool to follow.’

Mungo shook his head. ‘The boy is safer with us. Besides his horse is fast and he knows how to find his way back to the crick and help if trouble finds us.’

Hamish considered his options. He wished he had more men. Men like Luke who knew how to move stock and weren’t afraid of a fight. Still he did have Jasperson, McKenzie and Boxer across the river, a unique combination of experience, loyalty and cunning. ‘Keep an eye out.’

They weaved through the trees, the moon shining down through the canopy, illuminating the tree trunks in a ghostly veil. Occasionally they caught glimpses of the river, its black glassy surface paralleling their path. Hamish said nothing of the stretch of water. Boxer’s cautionary reminder of the possibility of more rains up north had eventuated. Rabbits foraging in the quietness scattered as they passed by. Overhead an owl hooted at their approach. Mungo halted. ‘Here.’ The riverbank sloped gradually, allowing easy access to the water’s edge. It was the best place to cross for both man and animal. Mungo frowned. Dismounting, he picked up a small stick and walked quietly down the sandy bank, throwing it into the water. The piece of wood was carried quickly away on the current. Hamish looked at the river and could only guess at the pull of the water under the surface.The cattle walked slowly across ground made uneven by past flooding. From where Jasperson rode on the wing, there was a clear view of the mob; a couple of hundred head, many of which were cows with half-grown calves. They’d gathered them up from where they wandered beneath the bright night sky as if they were catching butterflies. Jasperson almost considered increasing the numbers they took, though experience taught him otherwise. Once a man got too cocky and diverged one small step away from the original plan, trouble was the only outcome. No, he would stick with Hamish Gordon’s plan and his reward would be success.

Already the moon was past its midpoint. Ahead the cattle continued their onward progression. Their current route was exposed with only a light scattering of timber across an open plain. Jasperson would have preferred to walk the cattle through a more wooded area, instead of the clear, open path they followed which was the best option for getting the cattle across the river and into Wangallon before dawn. Besides, time was getting the better of them. Behind him cows were bellowing for straggling calves. They’d dropped twenty cows and small calves three miles back and some of the old girls left in the mob still bellowed to their young, making sure they were close by. Apart from the noise, which could carry for miles on such a still night, they couldn’t afford the river crossing being marred by cows looking for their offspring. At least Boxer promised the river would be easy to cross, although when they had ridden across the bridge at Widow’s Nest the black had frowned at the moving water and pointed at small bubbles on its surface. Jasperson didn’t need to have the brains of Charles Darwin to realise that it had rained up north. The question was, how much?

Across the mob on the right flank Jasperson made out McKenzie’s slight form. The boy slipped in and out of his vision, obscured by the hovering dust cloud following the mob. He’d proved capable of taking instruction, in more ways than one, Jasperson smirked, and although he wasn’t the most proficient of stockmen, the ability to keep one’s mouth shut was invaluable. Jasperson twisted in his saddle, aware of his space being intruded upon. Boxer was beside him.

Jasperson’s nose twitched irritably. Having told the old black to hold his position at the rear of the herd and to stop shifting about, here he was, ignoring his commands as if he knew better, sidling up to him like some shadowy spectre come to frighten the moonlight.

Jasperson twitched Boxer’s arm with a short wooden crop, the action drawing blood.

‘Can you not obey a simple order?’

Boxer snarled, his thick bottom lip dropping to reveal what remained of his teeth. ‘Trackers.’

Jasperson lifted in his saddle, looked about the flat grassland. The cattle moved at a steady pace. Boxer pointed to the left into the wind. ‘Smell blackfella.’

With the wind in their quarter they had a slight advantage, however there was precious little time. Whoever followed them would come across a trail of dropped cows and calves and immediately know they were out here moonlighting. Their best chance of success was to push the cattle hard towards the river and cross them where they could. Trying to meet up with the Boss was no longer a priority.

‘Get them moving, Boxer. Head straight for the river. We will cross where we can.’

Boxer argued. ‘No plan stays good once changed.’ A lone stockwhip echoed.

‘Damn him.’ The McKenzie boy’s stupidity had just given the trackers their exact location. ‘Go.’ Boxer galloped towards the tail end of the cattle as the mob broke into a trot.

A film of dust rose into the air. Jasperson’s eyes began to water as he kept pace with the mob on the wing. Cows were calling out. Calves caught up in the rushing mob were left disorientated. The cattle reached the trees bordering the river with a crash, their hides pressed close to each other as they snorted and bellowed, foaming at the mouth. Jasperson winced at the chaotic stampede. He pictured the frightened animals as his horse kept pace through the thickening trees. He knew calves would drown, that the stock would break free of their ranks to run along the riverbank instead of crossing it. He had a disaster on his hands, one that could lead to a hanging. He was entering the tree line when something caught his eye, a flash of metal perhaps in the moonlight or a distant light, he couldn’t be sure. Without hesitating he dug the heels of his boots into his horse’s flanks and followed the rushing cattle through the trees.For the second time in a week Maggie strode towards the ruin, emboldened by the hearty walk and a sense of daring unknown to her for years. It rose above the surrounding countryside to sit proudly upon the summit of the hill, and whispered to her of bloody siege battles in one age and illicit liaisons in another. The wind whipped her hair into her eyes, stinging her with the icy scent of the North Sea as she circumnavigated the tower and approached the cliff face, exhilarated. Below lay a distant inlet and a long low bridge carrying cars across it. Beyond a sleety mist was banked on the rocky shoreline across the water. She turned back towards her own home country, the sea wind biting at her neck. Cottages dotted fields, curling smoke rose prettily from every house and chunks of peaty land were cut away from the hills as if a giant had stooped down to take a bite from a tasty morsel. She walked cautiously towards the ruin, a jumble of rocks making her leapfrog slowly from one uneven surface to another. Another day she would have jumped them. Another time she would have hitched her skirts and stretched her legs across slabs scarred by centuries. Not today. Maggie drew air slivered with cold into her lungs and whistled a sketchy tune as she stepped up onto the narrow threshold of the ruin.

She ducked her head through the opening to smell musty earth and unused space. It was dark inside. A small crack in the wall let in a line of light that crept across the dirt floor to trace the stone on the opposite side. Maggie stretched her arms wide to touch either side of the ancient doorway. It was a jump down, aye, she remembered that, for at the time excitement consumed her and she was too distracted to consider the gap between daylight and darkness. Her hands ran along the rocky walls seeking support. Gingerly lowering her body she sat squarely on the entry stones, her feet solid on the ground below. She stood unsteadily as if the light had taken her balance and with it the years between then and now. She was a girl again, her body lithe, her feet supple and her need great.

They met for the third time at the ceilidhs after Ronald’s return from Edinburgh. Having enjoyed a string of afternoons together before his departure, Maggie was relieved on his return. There were whispers of him simultaneously outing with Catherine Jamieson and Maggie doubted she could entrance Ronald Gordon like the older beauty. Yet there he was walking into the whitewashed hall with the other villagers, and there she was walking towards him. They met in the middle of the hall, a crinkled-eyed smile greeting her nervous anticipation. Her words of greeting were lost among a small throng of locals drawn to this strong featured, gregarious man. Having recently seen the Northern Lights, Ronald held the circle gathered about him spellbound. He talked of dazzling shafts of colour, of violets, blues and red, the enchantment in his words eliciting pride from those who’d grown up with this natural phenomenon.They managed to dance once, then twice. His hands warm against hers, the stories of his home country floating between them like summer cider. And the words he spoke of: bush and mate, grazier and city slicker, cattle and dingoes. It was a world apart and a world Maggie needed. She cuddled up to him, oblivious to the hard stares of Tongue’s matrons. Here was a man who was willing to listen, who could save her from the torment of the last few months and a difficult future. It was so grand a dance that she considered her new life in Australia a certainty. For who would not dream of leaving this rock strewn place with its town hierarchy and a population incapable of forgetting one’s poor beginnings. Especially now, especially now that she owned her fine pair of running shoes – but at what cost.So she giggled and pleaded and dreamt the Northern Lights so spectacular from the hill where the ruin was perched that Ronald laughed at her descriptions. Maggie smiled so widely that her lips ached. The ruin, she whispered into his ear, her toes straining as she stood on their tips; the ruin. This was how such things were done. How problems were rectified. He nodded, as a man to a child. He was talking to some of the menfolk. Maggie left him alone to dawdle by the hall. She pulled her cardigan about her summer frock and looked up at the stars. The night squeezed her chest with anticipation. She could be patient, although her mother doubted it, calling her silly and shrewish on occasion. She skirted the hall, kicking at pebbles and dirt, twirling in the fractured light from the hall windows.Slowly she moved from the shadows. The dance was ending and people were spilling from the hall, some yawning, others laughing and chattering. She did not mean to grow impatient, yet she walked closer to the men haloed by the hall light. Ronald’s broad back faced her and Maggie edged around the groups of people standing like cairns, squeezing through them until she was positioned in Ronald’s direct line of sight. Finally she caught his eye and waved. He looked at her for a brief second, nodded and then returned to the publican who was demonstrating his fishing technique. It was enough for Maggie. It was a declaration of Ronald’s intent.I’ll meet you there, she whispered to herself. And so she left, running along the main street partnered by her moon shadow, her heart skipping breathlessly as her legs carried her to the path that led to the ruin. Onwards and up she half-ran and half-clambered. She knew it were better if they went separately and thought little of her lonely race until she reached the hilltop and spied the dark silhouette of the place once inhabited by Vikings. Breathless, she clambered over the rocks strewn before the dark gaping entrance. Maggie huddled against the rock wall, deciding it better to wait outside where she could be seen than venturing into the dark of the ruin. She hoped Ronald would find his way quickly, for the dark abyss of the cliff scared her and her bare legs were freezing. She glanced back towards the path that lead to Tongue, her excitement diminishing as the minutes drew on. Then finally she saw him appearing over the rise of the hill.Maggie sat back on the stone ledge. Remembering the past was always messy. One had a habit of sifting the good bits out so that the bad floated away with time. Here in the ruin she had laid with Ronald Gordon nearly three decades ago and to this day the seeping cold of the earth against her bare buttocks, his wet kisses and a howling wind that encircled the stone walls about them were the three things she recalled. It was hardly romantic. The rest of the night dropped away from her as surely as she’d stepped into the abyss beyond the cliff, for Ronald told her he was leaving Scotland and although she pleaded until not a shred of pride was left within her, he was to go alone. Maggie could not blame Ronald. Not then or now. He was a man like any other, and he took what she so foolishly offered. And she was the woman who believed irrationally in the strength of her wanting.

Afterwards, having begged him not to leave her, Ronald touched her cheek, wiped a tear from her clammy skin with his thumb. His own skin was tough and calloused and his tenderness left a scratch of concern where his kiss once was. ‘You will be a great runner,’ he praised her, lifting her clutching fingers free of his arm. ‘One Scotland will be proud of.’

She’d not the heart to tell him that her cherished dream would never eventuate; she’d not yet admitted it fully to herself.

He left the ruin at daylight and Maggie followed his receding figure as if he were a hallucination. Ronald Gordon was the embodiment of many a Scot’s dream. His forefathers, having left during impoverished times, were now equal to many of the lords of England in their Australian holding. They were an example of what could be done. They were what the Scottish youth in the north country aspired to; for Hamish Gordon had accomplished what seemed impossible, why couldn’t another?

Not once did Ronald Gordon look back at her. Not once did Ronald show regret. But she regretted. Maggie sat on a cracked stone slab. Irregular patches of springy turf were interspersed with wind-bared soil. Tiredness was inching its way through her and the thought of the long downhill trek brought tears to her eyes. She thought of the unwanted child borne of her wishing and planning: There was real love there now. She could only hope Jim came home safe and that their lives remained intact. For her mother always believed that one couldn’t escape their destiny. And that was what Maggie was most afraid of.Sarah strode purposefully along Elizabeth Street. The rising wind whipped her auburn hair into her eyes and mouth and she plucked at the fine strands, blinking at the midday chill. She tasted the grit of smog, listening to the deafening hum of cars, trucks, people and horns as she sidestepped rolling soft-drink cans, paper, people and a small white dog. Instantly she thought of Bullet, of her horse Tess, of the birds, the space, the air. Here Sarah only sublet the space she walked in and even that was curtailed by the width of the pavement and the press of bodies. The cold shadows of a great city emphasised the towering offices and she wished for quiet and space and unpolluted air. Clutching Frank’s parcel to her chest, Sarah walked on until she found a restaurant. She requested a table and then asked to use their telephone. Twenty minutes later Shelley walked into the restaurant.

‘Well this is a surprise,’ Shelley announced, her excited voice cutting through the air as she walked to the window table where Sarah sat. She was wearing a blue and white hound’s-tooth suit with padded shoulders, a short skirt and a silky white blouse. High-heeled white shoes completed the look. She looked very Princess Di. They hugged briefly.

‘Trust you to find this hole in the wall,’ Shelley glanced around the small space, ‘although I like the clientele.’ The restaurant was filling slowly with businessmen dressed in regulation black and charcoal grey suits. Shelley smiled brightly, enticing a couple of admiring glances. Giggling, she patted her carefully coiffed blonde hair and straightened her back. ‘Boring lot. Anyway, what are you doing down here?’ Sarah was gazing out the window. ‘What? Something dreadful has happened, hasn’t it? You look exhausted and sad.’

Sarah ordered two glasses of red wine from the disinterested waitress.

‘Anyone would think we were in Europe with that attitude,’ Shelley scowled as the girl sauntered away.

‘Annoyed, pissed off, furious is how I am,’ Sarah admitted after taking two sips of the wine. It was hot and peppery. What she really needed was a glass of water. ‘Think about the very worst thing that could happen to me.’ She swirled the wine in the glass and gestured to the waitress.

Shelley grimaced at the taste of her own wine and put her glass down. ‘Oh, not Anthony. Don’t tell me you two have had a shocking argument over that bloody property. Sarah, I’ve told you in the past if you want to keep him you have to defer to him just a little. Men like that.’

‘Defer to him? Defer to him?’

Shelley looked over her shoulder, now they were getting attention, the unwanted sort. ‘Shh. He adores you.’

‘Waitress,’ Sarah called loudly. The girl approached warily. ‘This wine is undrinkable.’

The girl flattened her lips and placed a thin bony hand on her hip.

Shelley’s eyes widened in surprise at Sarah’s tone. ‘Umm, maybe you could get us two glasses of chardonnay,’ she asked politely. ‘Something really chilled, and two of the fettuccine and chicken.’ She glanced at Sarah for confirmation and received a dull-eyed stare in return. The waitress smiled tightly, wrote down their order and left. ‘You better tell me what’s going on.’

‘Jim Macken has arrived in Australia. He wants his thirty per cent of Wangallon.’

Shelley found herself lifting the barely drinkable wine and taking a big gulp. Sarah’s eyes were wide as organ stops, her usually tanned face devoid of colour except for two bright spots on her cheeks.

‘The bastard thinks I’ll just bow down and take it up the proverbial.’

Shelley spluttered. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Well he’s got another thing coming.’ Sarah’s voice dropped.

The chardonnay arrived. ‘Bring the bottle,’ Shelley stated with an urgent nod to the waitress.

‘He thinks he’ll get it too. You should have seen that solicitor of his insinuating that Wangallon was built on dubious activities. For god’s sake, everyone stole a few head of stock back in the 1800s. He’s got another thing coming too.’ Sarah met Shelley’s concerned stare. ‘We’ll be going to court.’

‘Geez, to court, Sarah? You’re not going to contest your grandfather’s will?’

Sarah took a sip of wine. The action calmed her.

‘You’re going to contest Angus Gordon’s will.’ Shelley could barely believe what she was hearing. Angus’s word had always been law in the Gordon family. ‘You can’t do that.’

Sarah’s eyes hardened.

‘Hey, I’m on your side. Remember? What does Anthony say?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

‘So he’s against it?’

‘Anthony has his own problems at the moment. I’m his and he’s mine.’ Sarah drained her wine glass as the fettuccine arrived. She stabbed at the steaming bowl with her fork, chewed three mouthfuls in quick succession and then pushed the bowl to one side.

‘Talk to Anthony. He’s always supported you in the past.’

Sarah laughed and poured more wine for the both of them. ‘Not anymore. Those days are over.’

Shelley shook her head. ‘Sarah, you two love each other. Surely you can work together on this. Isn’t your relationship worth it?’

Sarah’s love for Anthony was absolute, however a relationship fractured by deceit was difficult to repair. Yesterday morning was proof of that. ‘Quite frankly, Shelley, I don’t know if it is.’

‘Sarah, Anthony and Wangallon are your life.’

Sarah thought about Wangallon: the expanse of sky that so totally engulfed the land, day and night; the sweet, unpolluted breath of the aged trees that stood sentinel along waterways; and the rich soil with its wavering vegetation that billowed across the great landscape like waves on the ocean. That was love, pure and unconditional. It was the type of love she once had for Anthony. Now only Wangallon remained constant.

‘What are you going to do?’ Shelley dabbed at the cream sauce on her bottom lip.

Outside the window the street looked cold and bleak. ‘There has to be a test to confirm Jim’s parentage and then we will go to court.’

‘Confirm his parentage?’ This was like listening to something out of The Bold and the Beautiful.

‘It’s a pretty standard thing in cases like this.’

Shelley took Sarah’s hand, pulling her attention from the window back to reality. ‘And what if you lose? Sarah, what if you lose part of Wangallon and Anthony. What then?’

Sarah shook her off. ‘I can’t think about that. I have to go to court and I have to win.’

‘What about your father?’ Shelley persevered. ‘Surely he has some suggestions.’

‘Yes, but not what I want to hear. And … Mum’s dead. Can you believe it? On top of everything else.’ She folded her hands in her lap.

‘Oh I’m sorry, Sarah. Can I do anything?’ Like grieve on your behalf, Shelley offered silently. She knew there was no love lost between mother and daughter yet surely there was some remaining bond left that warranted at least regret. Maybe not, Shelley decided. Sarah’s violet eyes were unblinking, except that she was looking a bit like a rabbit caught in a vehicle’s headlights.

She shook her head. ‘Dad thinks it’s best for Jim to get his share so everyone can get on with their lives.’

Shelley was beginning to think the same. ‘Go home, talk to Anthony. Whatever has happened between you two, you know he loves you. Anthony has always been there for you, Sarah. He’s always been at Wangallon. You can’t tell me you would want to live out the back of Woop Woop without him by your side.’

Sarah drained her wine glass. ‘You understand that I have to do this. I can’t let some upstart from the other side of the world take any part of Wangallon. My family created Wangallon. They toiled for her, built her,’ she swallowed, ‘and some died for her.’

Shelley thought immediately of Cameron. ‘You mean died on the property,’ she corrected. ‘What’s that?’

Sarah opened the palm of her hand. ‘My great-grandfather’s fob watch.’ She clutched at it. ‘I’m the custodian of Wangallon. It’s up to me if no one else wants to help fight to protect her. I can’t help it, Shelley. I feel responsible.’ She looked at the watch. ‘I feel driven.’

Shelley pulled out her wallet to pay for lunch. ‘Just be careful you don’t lose anything precious along the way, Sarah. Be careful you don’t lose yourself.’ Sarah was staring out the window again. Shelley put fifty dollars on the table and sighed. She knew people eventually needed to grow up and accept their responsibilities, however surely Anthony and Ronald wouldn’t let Sarah carry this burden alone. She was worried for Sarah and concerned for her future. There was a determined set to her jaw and it was with dismay that she recognised a similarity to Sarah’s own grandfather, the tetchy Angus Gordon. ‘Promise me you will consider things carefully before making the decision to go to court. Promise me you will talk to Anthony.’

‘I have to go. I have to try to get on a flight home and I need to be at the surgery by 3 pm.’

Shelley experienced a sense of foreboding. ‘Take care.’ Her friend gave her an excuse for a smile. Shelley grabbed her wrist. ‘Please call me if I can help.’

Sarah extricated herself and gave Shelley a brief kiss on the check. ‘I will.’ They both knew she wouldn’t.

The chardonnay left a sour aftertaste in Shelley’s mouth as Sarah walked out of the restaurant. Her friend hitched her handbag over a shoulder, clutched a brown paper bag to her chest and dipped her head into the wind. Shelley shivered, recalling the old saying about someone walking over your grave. The dictates of Sarah’s ancestors were haunting her from their tree-shaded plots and Shelley knew that no matter what anyone advised, Sarah would take the hardest path. She always had. The girl was drawn to Wangallon and was clearly determined to protect it. But then with a history like the Gordons, what did she expect. There was going to be some fallout, Shelley decided as she winked at a dark-haired man near the restaurant door.Jim waited patiently on the opposite corner of the street near Hyde Park, feeling guilty at his newly acquired skill. His decision to follow Sarah after the meeting with their respective lawyers had been borne of both anger and frustration. There was a fight looming, one he wanted to avoid if possible. He had planned on confronting Sarah without the ‘suits’ and suggest they try to discuss things amicably, although now he realised how naive he had been and his initial readiness to confront her had been replaced with indecision and tiredness.

Jim watched as Sarah left the restaurant alone, eventually dawdling in front of the David Jones department store window. Her long, glossy hair blew in the wind as she readjusted her handbag, before turning the corner. Jim dashed across the lanes of traffic to follow her, narrowly missing two taxis and a bus. Sarah walked quickly and Jim found himself ducking between pedestrians and apologising for his rudeness as he circumnavigated the crowds at the next set of traffic lights and stepped blindly in front of a lady in a wheelchair. Eventually he found himself in Pitt Street Mall. There was no sign of Sarah.

Jim sat heavily on a wooden bench and listened blankly as two young office workers discussed the death of a friend’s parent. The widow was taking it very badly. So badly that sedatives were being used and their girlfriend was moving back home on the advice of their family doctor. Jim pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it carefully. Tony Woodbridge had located his birth father’s address in Queensland. Ronald Gordon lived on the Gold Coast and his wife, Sue, Sarah’s mother, was recently deceased.

‘They’ll be grieving for months, that lot.’ The rather rotund girl commented on Jim’s left.

‘You’re not wrong, Kylie. Once you lose someone close it takes months for people to get over it,’ her friend added, ‘if they ever do’.

On the flight from Scotland, Jim had wondered what it would be like to meet his birth father. He’d had visions of a welcoming reunion, of being literally embraced by the man who was his real father. Now he knew the reality was very different. Ronald Gordon had known of Jim’s existence for years and he hadn’t bothered to make his acquaintance before this. The death of Sarah’s mother was unlikely to change Ronald’s attitude. The real barrier between them, Jim guessed, wasn’t time and absence. It was Wangallon. Sarah was obsessed with the property and she was her father’s daughter, and Jim Macken was the unwanted lad from Scotland who could ruin a close family’s heritage.

There was a young busker standing only a few feet away from where Jim sat. He was singing along to music from a tape recorder. His voice verged on the ordinary, yet any coin that came his way was greeted with such a wondrous smile that he invariably found the donation doubled. There was a person, Jim decided, who was happy in his own skin. He was making his own way in the world and not taking anything that he hadn’t made himself. Jim thought of his Scottish parents and wished he was back home. Next week, he promised himself. Next week, after the tests are back he’d book his return flight home. He wasn’t going to stay here with no friends to support him. He was paying his lawyer a fortune so Woodbridge could handle everything in his absence.

Sarah approached the busker and dropped coins in the hat at his feet. The man stopped singing and spoke to her for long minutes. Jim watched as Sarah laughed and then walked away. He followed her once again, trying to rehearse in his mind what he might say. He would like to talk to her one more time, yet somehow the words wouldn’t come and instead he found himself thinking of the eerie night he’d spent in Wangallon Homestead with the sprawling paddocks beyond. When Sarah crossed at the lights, Jim didn’t follow. He knew that not only did he not belong in her world, he was unwanted. He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets as the early afternoon shoppers and hurrying office workers milled around him. He should never have come to Australia at Robert Macken’s urging, he decided. He should have listened to his mother.Hamish looked intently from the dark current of the river to the trees on the far bank, willing the cattle to show themselves. Removing a rope from his saddle, he borrowed both Harry’s and Angus’s and tied all three ropes together, securing one end to a thick-trunked gum.

Mungo shook his head. ‘Better stay, Boss, mebbe cattle not cross here.’

‘When they cross I want you to return with the cattle,’ Hamish ordered. ‘Join them up with the droving mob on the far boundary. I’ve got Wetherly in charge of them until you arrive, then you’re in charge, Mungo. You’re boss drover.’

‘Me, Boss? What about Luke?’

‘Luke no longer works here.’

Coiling the length of rope, Hamish walked his horse towards the water. The animal shied and reared up, begrudgingly entering the water under tightened reins and the prick of spurs. The horse found its feet on the sandy bottom and cautiously walked out into the deepening swirl. The water inched up Hamish’s thighs and then the bottom of the river slipped away and the water was running over the horse’s back. Hamish urged the animal onwards as his mount swam across, whispering to him, coaxing to him to keep going while simultaneously wondering how fast the water was rising. The rope was still feeding out behind them and although the current carried them diagonally, they landed on the far bank without injury. Hamish egged the horse up the sandy slope and tied the rope around a box tree, ensuring his return. The unmistakeable sound of crunching branches and a rushing tearing sound reverberated along the riverbank. His horse’s ears twitched nervously. Hamish signalled to Mungo. The cattle were moving too fast. Something had gone wrong.

He managed to gallop his horse along the sandy riverbank just as the first of the cattle hurtled towards the water. The leaders ran directly into the glassy surface, while others slowed on approach. Some were pushed into the river by the weight of those behind; others thought better of the task ahead and turned either left or right to run along the bank. Casualties were immediate. Two carcasses were floating downstream while a third animal lay on its side on the opposite bank, the animal’s hind legs kicking at the sand as cattle scrambled over the top. A number of calves were calling out frantically. Hamish caught sight of Boxer and McKenzie as a single rifle shot sounded. He glanced quickly over his shoulder, unsure of the direction it came from, and then headed to where the rope was tied.

The nulla-nulla hit Boxer between the eyes, the impact driving him from his young colt and sending him sprawling in the grass. Hamish watched his old friend fall to disappear behind the moving cattle. Moving quickly to the rope he charged his horse down the bank. Behind him he heard a scuffle and then a yelp. He glimpsed the butt of Jasperson’s rifle and saw a white man drop to the ground.

‘Go,’ Jasperson yelled.

Behind him an Aborigine appeared through the trees. Hamish caught sight of a tall warrior with a skin dragged over his shoulder and spurred his horse down the bank. He entered the water as a spear entered his thigh, the impact shunting him sideways. With the spear dangling from his muscle Hamish overbalanced as his horse was swept from under him. With clenching fingers he held tight to the rope. He glanced over his shoulder. Jasperson was darting through the trees, an Aborigine in pursuit. Then the rope went slack and he sank beneath the surface. Hamish splashed uselessly as the current pushed him towards the last of the cattle crossing the river. His one chance was to grab hold of one of the cows, maybe clamber onto a back or hang onto a tail. His chances were slim. The current was pulling at his damaged leg. He tried to swim and gulped at the muddy tide, felt the water bash at the spear still dangling from his thigh. Then he was pulled under again.Mungo watched in horror as the Boss went under. He ran along the bank, calling to him uselessly while on the far bank Aborigines were running in the same direction. These men weren’t trackers. They were renegades. A rifle shot sounded. Mungo dived into the dirt, spitting grit from his mouth as cattle bellowed and lost calves cried out. McKenzie appeared on the far bank, chasing the blacks for a few scant seconds before turning his attention to a body. He dumped it in the water and returned with another, hiding the evidence of their crime. A final body appeared on the riverbank. It too was dragged unceremoniously into the water. With a stab of painful recognition, Mungo watched as Boxer floated away and for the briefest of seconds he had a terrible suspicion that his father was still alive. Lifting his rifle he cocked it, pointing the barrel across the water directly at McKenzie’s stomach. Very slowly he squeezed down on the trigger.