A Changing Land

‘He’s dead,’ Shelley sniffed. The only dead thing she’d seen recently was a cockroach in her apartment. She experienced an urge to reach out her hand and poke the dog in the ribs. Instead she watched as the restraightened leg was bandaged. Matt then proceeded to slip the thick rubber tubing around the break. It was a snug contraption held in place with black electrical tape. ‘There you go, boy.’

Shelley was stunned when the dog lifted its head as if in gratitude.

With Ferret on the back porch wrapped in a blanket, the mess tidied in the kitchen and Sarah’s offer to care for Ferret accepted, Shelley was surprised when coffee was refused by both men.

‘Something I said?’ Shelley asked as she watched Matt and Anthony walk down the back path to their horses. She had to admit it she was admiring more than the cut of their jeans. ‘Cute buns.’

‘Thought you were about to be engaged.’ Sarah cut two wedges of thick cheese and plonked them on a couple of crackers.

‘Well you know what they say. It doesn’t matter where you get your appetite from as long as you eat at home.’

‘Those two have a bit of a love hate relationship going on at the moment.’ Sarah took a bite of her cracker. ‘Actually, they’re like young horses that both want to lead.’

Shelley sat down at the kitchen table and peered knowingly at Sarah over her coffee. Someone couldn’t see the forest for the trees.

Hamish escorted Claire to the picnic rug that lay beneath the spreading arms of a gum tree and deposited her next to the bank manager’s wife, Hilda, and her two daughters, Henrietta and Jane. A picnic after their fortnightly church service was a regular event during the warmer months and the one held in honour of Christmas was a mildly entertaining one. It surprised him that Claire, always complaining about the dearth of social opportunities, never attended these gatherings with more enthusiasm. The grouping was select, with invitations only extended to six families, a communal picnic table set up for all to enjoy. Hilda Webb inclined her chin coquettishly at Hamish as only a woman assured of her position in society could do. She fluttered eyelashes grown sparse, Hamish surmised, from overuse and bade him a fine day. As bank manager, her husband Reginald scaled the hierarchy of social class in terms of importance and Hilda dictated that it was only proper she and Claire sit together.

‘You’d be looking for rain,’ Reginald stated when Hamish managed to extricate himself from Mrs Webb. ‘I, myself, am grateful for the dry conditions.’ He took a pinch of snuff from an ornate royal blue and sterling silver box and snorted the powder up each nostril. ‘I must say I do believe that doctor in Sydney was correct. This dry air has improved my lungs substantially.’

‘Indeed, although I doubt your current seat can compare with the sandstone edifice of the Bank of New South Wales,’ stated Hamish. ‘However, in answer to your question, yes, I do hope for an early break to the season.’ Hamish sated his thirst on the rather sickly punch sitting on the white clothed wooden table and waited for the maids to unpack something a little more suitable to his temperament.

‘And how’s your son Luke?’

Hamish embarked on a detailed description of the herd’s trek southward, relying on his own past experience and not the detailed reportage Luke refused to write him. ‘I’ve been thinking of approaching Crawford again,’ Hamish revealed, reliant on Reginald for any snippet of information. The bank manager carried the fateful trait of honesty, which assured Hamish of correct in formation. However, it also meant that Crawford would eventually hear of Hamish’s renewed intentions.

Reginald took a sip of punch. ‘The man’s employed a new stud master, Jacob Wetherly. So I doubt he’d be interested. However I believe there is a settler’s block coming up again to the east of your holding. Shall I investigate?’

‘Yes, do. Wetherly, you say. The name is familiar.’

‘Yes, he should be joining us today. Wetherly’s highly regarded in the sheep breeding business although he’s a southerner. Don’t go much on them myself. The further one travels south in this great country of ours the more the landed become enmeshed with delusions of grandeur.’ Reginald slurped his punch and patted his moustache with a snowy white handkerchief. ‘Damn awful stuff.’

Hamish accepted a French brandy and a dry cracker from a maid and ensured Reginald was attended to. ‘That’s better,’ Hamish announced, finishing the glass and calling the maid back for a refill.

‘Indeed,’ Reginald agreed. ‘Crawford’s determined to increase the greasy fleece weight of his flock. The market’s certainly holding its interest.’

‘A trend only,’ Hamish remarked. ‘The competition that has been growing among producers will weaken eventually. Those Vermont imports from Spain will soon go out of favour. The greasy wrinkles in the skin make the battle with flies interminable. We never had those blasted green maggoty blowflies before the Vermont arrived in this country.’

‘Still,’ Reginald reminded him, ‘greasy fleece weight is where the money is and Wetherly was getting results until he embarked on his own mating program.’ He narrowed his eyes for emphasis.

Hamish was not one to go against the vagaries of the market when said market was paying top dollar. Besides which, his last clip had topped the selling season. As for Crawford’s plans for his flock, nabbing the highly regarded Jacob Wetherly would put an end to that. And while employing Wetherly may not increase the chances of Crawford selling up, it was an opportunity to remind the Englishman of the undeniable benefits of the open market, especially if Oscar Crawford persisted in living next to Wangallon.

The maids began laying food on the table. Hamish and Reginald eyed parrot pie, small damper rolls, sliced mutton, potatoes, the usual fatty dish of fried fish provided by the minister’s household, and a duck and quail casserole. Hamish poured more brandy as the women came forward to be served. He greeted Hilda Webb and her red-haired daughters, chatted to the minister’s wife, Mrs Ovendale, and even felt gracious enough to comment on the storekeeper’s recent business investment into timber. A mill to service the demographic increase of Wangallon Town was a common-sense plan.

‘Here is Jacob Wetherly now,’ Reginald announced as a dapper figure approached the parkland surrounds on the banks of the creek. ‘Of course Crawford can never be persuaded to venture forth for an outing.’

‘Pity,’ Hamish agreed sociably, although personally the opportunity for information gathering was the sole reason he bore such engagements. Wetherly tethered his horse to the branch of a shady gum. ‘I believe I will offer him a position,’ Hamish announced to the bemused bank manager.

‘A position? I doubt that he would … but of course, come then,’ Reginald offered, ‘let me introduce you.’

Hamish was askance. Did the man think he would follow? ‘You can bring him to me,’ he stated formally, picking up a plate and dishing up some of the quail and duck concoction. He never was one for mixing meats, but one had to make do occasionally.

Claire tired of Hilda’s ongoing description of how markedly fine her daughter’s matching set of hair tongs, curlers, shoe buttoner and shoe horn were, and looked with disinterest about the scattered picnic rugs. The shopkeeper’s family, the Stevens, sat with an English couple who owned a pleasing amount of land to the south of Wangallon Town. Further away reclined the minister and his family – the three sons of whom were off, no doubt, making mischief with Angus. Sally Foster laughed delightedly at an anecdote shared by Mrs Ovendale. Claire would like to have extended an invitation for Sally to join her, however, having married a Baptist some years ago, she’d fallen foul of Hamish who believed that a Scot’s Presbyterian should stay with their own.

Claire brushed at the line of ants crawling across the picnic rug and shifted her position. Her whalebone corset was troubling her today, a usual occurrence during summer, and she pined for the coolness of her bedroom. She untied the chiffon scarf securing her curved brimmed hat and let the air waft about her.

‘Mr Stevens has invested in timber,’ Mrs Webb began by way of conversation, cutting through Claire’s daydreams. ‘I find the very concept of a trade abominable. Do you not, Mrs Gordon? The very thought of such a life, well,’ Mrs Webb gave a convulsive shiver. ‘Some say he is clever. Who can be clever in a small town is my response, for there is none to compare the man with.’ She ate a morsel of salted mutton and sipped at a warm glass of punch. ‘I find him altogether too shrewd, particularly as the foundations for another hotel are being laid almost diagonally opposite the current one. Besides which those that own a general store always know who has money and who does not. To my thinking that is most unpalatable.’

‘A big fish in a small pond?’ Claire remarked.

‘Exactly.’ Hilda patted Claire’s gown. ‘I saw that very ensemble in the Grace Brothers’ catalogue. I myself have never been one for all white.’

‘Mother thinks it decadent,’ Henrietta stated prettily. Jane took a bite of her parrot pie, the pastry crumbling down the front of her somber grey blouse. ‘Decadent,’ she repeated as if the food she ate had somehow intrinsically weaved its way into her vocal chords.

Claire, having never seen Hilda in anything other than black, patted the older woman’s hand. ‘Nonsense, white would suit you very well.’

Hilda gave a dimpled smile and then pounced on the arrival of Jacob Wetherly. ‘My dear husband promised us some entertainments today, did he not, my girls?’

‘Yes, Mama,’ Henrietta and Jane answered with the synchronicity of rehearsed obedience.

‘A fine style of a man, Mrs Gordon,’ Mrs Webb observed. ‘He’s been employed down south on a highly regarded property for some fifteen years. They say he fell afoul of the owner.’ Hilda leant conspiratorially towards Claire. ‘There is talk of a liaison with no other than Mrs Henry Constable.’

‘No,’ Claire whispered. ‘How impossibly salacious.’ And not at all surprising, Claire decided, as both she and Mrs Webb lifted their fans and under cover of much fluttering stared blatantly at the new arrival. ‘Mrs Henry Constable must be –’

‘Forty-five in the shade my dear, with five children. Oh he is a fine form of a man,’ Hilda said breathily.

Claire couldn’t disagree. Jacob Wetherly was tall and wore his clothes well. Dark-haired and straight-backed with a becoming dark tan to his skin, his was a welcome addition to their gathering.

‘There is also the whisper of an estate in England.’ Mrs Webb tapped Claire on the forearm, ‘although there is disagreement as to his actual worth. It would seem Mr Gordon has taken to him.’

It was true, Claire observed, fascinated as Mr Webb provided introductions. Hamish led the man aside, gesturing with his hands animatedly. Claire had witnessed such persuasion before although at the moment she was unsure as to the nature of this particular exchange. Jacob Wetherly’s expression alternated from surprise to interest to momentary quiet. Finally the two men shook hands. Claire lowered her fan. Mr Wetherly was looking directly at her. She averted her eyes, for once grateful of Henrietta and Jane’s prattling and her curved brim hat. Claire busied herself with the fried fish Mrs Ovendale helpfully suggested was for those with a tendency towards overheating.

‘They are coming over to join us,’ Mrs Webb announced with an excited tremble to her voice.

Claire dabbed at her greasy lips with a white linen napkin. Hamish and Mr Wetherly were indeed walking towards their shady retreat, with Reginald following.

‘Sit up straight,’ Hilda advised her daughters. ‘Don’t say anything silly,’ she challenged Jane. ‘Remember you are both unmarried and it is a disappointment to me,’ she patted Henrietta’s arm, ‘but it is a disappointment that could be rectified with effort.’ Henrietta plastered on a serene smile. Jane brushed crumbs from her bunched skirt.

Jacob Wetherly declared himself honoured to be included at their picnic and commented on the becoming nature of Mrs Webb’s daughters, who in turn dropped their mouths open so that pink tongues and white teeth became the extent of his remembrances of them. It was only after pleasantries were exchanged that Claire enquired as to his visit to Wangallon Town.

‘New and I might add unforeseen prospects,’ he answered mysteriously. His eyes were grey, made more intriguing by a deep scar etched on his forehead and an aquiline nose a debutante would die for. Claire was positive a wink escaped in her direction, but unsure as to whether this was a premeditated manoeuvre or some undiagnosed tick she took refuge behind her fan. She could not, however, escape the brushing of his lips across her hand, nor the positively languorous way in which he released his grip. It was proving to be an entertaining afternoon, she decided.

‘And what are your plans for Christmas, Mrs Gordon?’ Mrs Webb enquired when the men strode away to another group of picnickers and their foursome had calmed themselves sufficiently enough to accept Jane’s offer of slices of apple pie. Claire was pleased to find herself discussing her thoughts of a large scrub turkey with roasted vegetables.

‘Yes, and mutton,’ Mrs Webb added. ‘We can look forward to mutton chops for breakfast, roasts for dinner and cold cuts for tea before it is salted, cured and placed in the meat safe. Oh, when do you think we will have one of those glorious ice chests such as the city folk enjoy? Now that is something the shopkeeper should be investing in, not timber.’

‘We could have ices, Mama,’ Henrietta suggested.

‘Oh yes, with fresh lemon cordial.’ Jane sprayed her sister with morsels of apple and pastry.

Henrietta brushed at her blouse. ‘You are not fit for polite society.’

Despite her best intentions Claire found herself glancing in Jacob Wetherly’s direction, before drifting off as Mrs Webb began an extended explanation on the digestive benefits of stuffing and gravy.Reclining on her side, Claire was beginning to doze in the afternoon sun when a disturbance awakened her.

‘Oh, what has happened?’ Mrs Webb enquired, reaching for her smelling salts. Henrietta perched on her knees in anticipation. ‘Well go on, Jane,’ Mrs Webb pointed her sharply closed fan in the direction of the kerfuffle as Jane ran off to investigate. ‘Come back instantly once you have ascertained the drama of the event.’

Minutes later the minister and Mr Wetherly marched the three young master Ovendales and Angus Gordon out of the timber bordering the clearing. The minister had a firm grasp of Angus’s collar and all four boys were covered with mud from their short pants to their feet. The rest of the picnickers were agog with interest, quickly forming a tight circle and blocking any further view.

‘It is Angus,’ Jane spluttered, looking apologetically at Claire. ‘He tied one of the boys up a tree. Mr Wetherly said it was at an impressive height.’

Claire gave an indulgent sigh. ‘I’ve no doubt.’Anthony drove along the edge of the bore drain. In the distance he could hear the mechanical rumbling of the excavator as it scooped out the two feet of packed earth that sealed the fodder inside the silage pit. About to head in the direction the excavator was working, his attention was diverted by a cow bogged in the bore drain. She was an older cow. One who’d managed to sneak in a calf before she could be sold, and was now struggling to maintain condition due to the combined effects of age and the simple fact that she was cooking for two.

After only a few hours in the cold water of the drain, the cows usually lost strength and movement in their hind legs, any longer and hypothermia set in. Anthony took one look at the old girl, with her wild-eyed stare and shaking head, and thought she was a goner. Mud was piled up around her from repeated struggling and the bore water ringed the dark red of her hide. Taking a heavy chain from the Landcruiser’s tray, he attached it to the vehicle’s roo bar and approached the cow. She bellowed and snorted, twisting her head repeatedly so that every time Anthony tried to loop the chain around her horns, he missed; the chain dropping into the mud of the drain. Finally he managed to get the chain secured. He reversed the Landcruiser slowly. The chain grew taut, the cow bellowed. Anthony kept reversing until the cow was clear of the drain, then he drove forward quickly to slacken the chain, jumped out and removed it from her horns. To his surprise she clambered to her feet, snorting mucus into the air. Her scared eyes met his, her body shook uncontrollably and in an instant she was charging him. Anthony scrambled into the tray as she looked at him for a long minute before finally walking away. Further along the drain a calf appeared and mother and child were reunited.

Brushing mud from his hands, Anthony continued towards the pit. They would have to start regular drain runs to ensure they didn’t lose any other cows, which meant, he begrudgingly admitted, that they should have opened the pit earlier. Sporadic trees punctuated the otherwise open country and within minutes he was nearing the silage pit that rose like an ancient burial mound from the flat landscape. The sky was dulled by cloud and out towards the west, a mist of rain fuzzed the tree line.

Outdoors everything seemed so simple. The bush was labour intensive yet it rewarded you if you weren’t averse to risk and you were savvy management-wise. So why wasn’t his personal life as easy? On his arrival at Wangallon as a young jackeroo, Anthony had found himself drawn to Sarah and her brother, Cameron. And while his self-esteem grew commensurate with his journey up the management ladder, from the beginning a sense of belonging permeated his days on Wangallon. It was his desire to remain on the property that helped salve his dismay at Sarah’s leaving after Cameron’s death, and his attachment to the Gordon’s great mass of land almost compensated for Sarah’s long absences from the property. Once or twice he considered leaving, although the property had seeped into his veins. And then there was Sarah and the simple fact that one day she might return.

While Anthony could never fathom Angus Gordon’s manipulative personality he did understand the magnitude of good fortune that lay in the shape of the thirty per cent share of Wangallon bequeathed to him. He was very much aware of his responsibilities and had been running a tight ship for a number of years now. He could only see disaster ahead if Sarah began questioning his management style and Matt continued on his ‘delusions of self-importance’ path. Matt was a good bloke and capable, however he was only an employee. Taking advantage of Sarah’s weak spots to further his management aspirations, or wangling his way out of station work by pleading a perpetually useless hand weren’t endearing qualities.Anthony pulled up some feet away from Matt’s vehicle as rain flecked the windscreen. Matt couldn’t wait for the fine weather expected tomorrow. He had to prove a point. The excavator had removed the top layer of dirt from the pit and was now filling two tip trucks with chopped sorghum. The scoop swung from the mouth of the pit across to the first truck and dumped its load in the back. The truck shuddered at the weight, the rear tyres bulging and then resettling.

Matt walked around the side of the tipper, kicking at the rear tyre as if checking the air pressure, his signature cigarette looking like an eleventh finger. Anthony nodded at the spits of rain. They couldn’t afford for the silage to get wet. ‘There are tarps in the back,’ Anthony pointed over his shoulder, ‘and you’ll need some tyres to secure them.’ He didn’t bother to remind Matt that waiting another day for the fine weather predicted would have been a better alternative than having tippers and excavators sitting down.

Matt took a drag of his cigarette. ‘No worries.’ His voice carried over the two-way radio in the Landcruiser as Anthony drove away. ‘We’ll have to knock off until the rain passes,’ he advised everyone.

In the rear-view mirror a line of bulbous grey–blue clouds appeared in the distance. It would be raining tonight although Anthony didn’t expect much out of this cold front moving through. The vehicle bumped over a stock ramp, jolted through a series of potholes on the road and then turned towards a gateway. There were some early calving cows to check on, and then a number of telephone calls to make. Anthony opened the gate, pausing to reflect on what he was about to do. He’d been deliberating over an idea for some months. A project which he was convinced would ensure Wangallon’s continued longevity and prosperity. Having been on the verge of mentioning it to Sarah he was now loathe to, especially after the stock route and silage pit argument. He tapped his fingers on the aluminum frame of the gate. Sarah wouldn’t be happy. Ahead a bore drain twisted away to the right, to his left a startled emu appeared from amid dry grass and bolted from a nest in an effort to lead Anthony away. Anthony pulled his akubra a little further over his eyes; this was one project that couldn’t be delayed.Sarah stared glumly through the kitchen window at the misting rain, her fingers entwined around her morning coffee. She thought of Shelley, imagined her planning her Thursday night out and briefly wished there was a nice little restaurant around the corner where she and Anthony could go to. She was finding the station book work a chore and it was her own fault. The bookkeeper had been let go a few months after her grandfather’s death, at Sarah’s insistence. It seemed silly to pay for something she could manage herself and there was no better way of understanding the running of the property. Unfortunately the task of keeping the station office running required a good two and a half days a week and once summer arrived the constant watering the garden required would take up any spare moment. She felt her paddock time being gradually eroded.

Outside the lemon-scented gum’s trunk was streaked with rain. Sarah watched as a topknot pigeon huddled its head on its breast, a puff of white and grey clinging to a branch. Things were changing. She could feel it as surely as if a new door were open before her, yet a niggling sense of annoyance was competing for her attention. Last Monday’s meeting lay as an unsubtle reminder of her discontent. Maybe Anthony was right and she had suddenly developed an opinion – one she wanted heard. And wasn’t that how things should be? She certainly didn’t want to cause an argument, yet sometimes he made her feel like a bystander in the running of her family’s property. And being relegated to second-tier management was beginning to sit uneasily with her. Now she had added reasons to be upset. One of this morning’s accounts was for twenty-eight thousand dollars; two new loading ramps and a set of portable cattle yards. She sipped contemplatively at her coffee. She could live with that; however, the equipment finance loan application for one hundred thousand dollars worth of a body cattle truck was getting a little out of hand. Sarah rubbed her forehead; neither of the items were mentioned in the station diary as possible future purchases.

In the office Sarah sat down at the large oak desk and looked out the casement window to the garden. This side of the homestead held her grandmother’s cuttings and herb garden. Grandma Jessica had died of an asthma attack out there. The bush she adored had killed her through the combination of an environmental allergy and isolation. Angus had been out mustering at the time, returning to find her lying in the garden unconscious, her wide straw hat and wicker basket lying by her side. The garden was her passion and encompassed a small area of dirt once tended by a Chinese man. His vegetable garden supplied much of the homestead’s requirements for nearly forty years until his death. Then there had been extensions and renovations to the rear of Wangallon in the twenties, fifties and the eighties; an office, kitchen, pantry and a walk-in cool room with adjoining fridge and commercial-sized deep freeze now covered the majority of the garden he once tended.

At various stages during the year the vegetable garden boasted rows of neatly planted cabbages, tomatoes, pumpkin, carrots and cucumber. Not particularly adventurous fare, but easy enough to grow, at least. Parsley, mint and rosemary completed the herb section. It was not that Sarah didn’t care for the garden, indeed pottering around the moist beds amid the wavering trees was amazingly therapeutic; it was simply that she loved what grew beyond the back gate more. Out there was the rich soil that ensured their survival. Out there was the land that her people had lived and died for.

Clearing away images of a pigtailed man digging up the Wangallon soil, Sarah returned to the remaining unopened mail. There was the monthly fuel account, the molasses statement for the supplement they fed to the cows prior to the spring calving and the usual junk mail. Throwing the flyers for the supermarket cut-price specials and furniture store deals in the wastepaper bin, she jumped when the telephone rang.

‘Sarah, it’s Dad. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.’

She waited for the tremble in his voice to subside. There were only two things he could be calling about.

‘It’s your mother.’

Relief flooded through her, quickly followed by guilt.

‘She’s declined a bit over the last day.’

Sarah wondered if she should jump in the car and begin the long drive north. ‘I’m sorry, Dad. Is it bad?’

‘Well, the doctor can’t give me any specifics. How about I let you know if there’s any change.’ The cheery tone in her father’s voice sounded forced.

‘Okay. And you’re all right?’

‘I’m fine.’

Sarah turned their conversation to the weather and the opening of the silage pit. She was concerned for her father, however this wasn’t the first telephone call over the last couple of years heralding her mother’s increasing ill health.

‘Hey, honey.’ Anthony strode into the office, his jeans bloody. ‘Can you find me a syringe? One of the cows aborted and she’s prolapsed. I need to give her a shot of penicillin.’

‘Gotta go, Dad. I’ll speak to you later.’ She hung up the phone and selected a syringe and a sixteen gauge needle from the stainless steel cupboard. ‘The penicillin is in the cool room. I’ll go –’

‘No need.’ Anthony took the syringe and needle from her hand. ‘I’ll get it on the way out.’

‘I’ll come.’ Sarah walked from the office to the back porch where her riding boots were. She’d had enough of being indoors and figured being outside might give them both some perspective; especially when it came to discussing the purchases she’d not been told about.

He turned to her, kissed her forehead. ‘There’s no need. I can handle it.’

‘But I want to come.’

He took her by the shoulders. ‘It’s messy, Sarah. You don’t really want to see it.’

For a moment Sarah stared after his retreating figure. He made her feel ill-equipped to handle something that she had viewed on more than one occasion. ‘Anthony? Wait.’ By the time Sarah pulled her boots on and ran down the back path, the Landcruiser was driving away. As she turned back towards the homestead, Bullet sat squarely in the middle of the back path, his head tilted to one side. A few feet away Ferret sat uncomfortably beneath the above ground rainwater tank, his pipe-encased leg thrust out awkwardly to one side.

‘How are you going, Ferret?’

The dog gave a whine. Bullet nudged her leg as she squatted beside him. The rain had eased and a cold southerly stung her eyes. Sarah snuggled up against Bullet. Despite the best of intentions, her thoughts turned from cattle ramps, trucks and Anthony to her mother.‘Morning.’ Jasperson dismounted stiffly from his horse before wrapping the reins around the hitching post that ran parallel to the verandah. By his side was the lad known as McKenzie. Hamish ignored Jasperson’s newest recruit. Having plucked the boy from obscurity, the lad’s length of tenure at Wangallon depended on his ability. Jasperson looked peaky. In hindsight, Hamish recalled, not much different to the day over fifty years ago when they had come upon him camped alone on the banks of the swollen Broken River. There had only been the three of them after Hamish’s brother’s death: Hamish, Lee and Dave. They had buried Charlie on the goldfields, headed north and found Jasperson. Jasperson, an uptight Englishman with a penchant for young boys, had given some cockeyed story about having lost everything and everyone. Yet Hamish saw in him the same attributes as Dave; they were men who could follow orders and keep their mouths shut and men like that were damn hard to find and replace. It was a pity Dave finally succumbed to his own mortality. Hamish had thought his willpower was stronger than that.

‘Well, what news?’ Hamish swigged down his tea. If a month traversing Wangallon’s western boundary had not caused the Englishman to hanker a little for conversation, nothing would. There were miles of fences to check, boundary riders to locate and rotate to other parts of the property and general observations on the state of the grazing country to be recorded and passed on. Hamish was usually on horseback by now, the rising sun in his eyes and an image of the country he’d acquired over many years beckoning like a pitcher of water. Instead it was nearing seven o’clock and his impatience was biting at his stomach.

Hamish tapped out his pipe. ‘Well?’ A glance was exchanged between the pustule-faced boy and his overseer. Hamish knew that look. Their relationship had clearly been settled one night out on the western boundary. Money and terms had been exchanged and Hamish suspected McKenzie had dropped his trousers by a glowing campfire. It was not the first time such a favour had been extracted, nor would it be the last. Hamish narrowed his eyes. This Scottish boy with his flickering gaze and willingness to accommodate Jasperson was looking for advancement. No doubt he believed that the top of the great tree that was Wangallon was poorly stocked with fruit not yet grown or apples souring and ready to fall. Well this one would be at the receiving end of a ready lesson if he diverted from a path directed by Jasperson.

‘Luke’s about a day’s ride away,’ Jasperson began. ‘The cook’s already at the Wangallon Town Hotel. Reckon’s the boy got speared a few months back.’

Hamish considered this snippet. ‘He’s not maimed?’

Jasperson shook his head.

‘Good. Take yourself into town and report back to me when he arrives. Is his whore still there?’

‘The Grant girl? Yes.’

McKenzie’s expression grew attentive. While the question was directed at Jasperson, Hamish sensed annoyance. The Scottish boy was peeved. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers and scuffed at the dirt with the toe of his boot.

‘If she be your whore too lad, my advice would be to find another.’ Hamish couldn’t have his own son sharing a woman with the likes of this boy. ‘What else?’ he demanded of Jasperson.

‘The big river dried up down near Crawford Corner a few weeks ago. The boundary rider moved the cattle south in an attempt to get them to the main drain but it was dry.’

‘What do you mean dry? It’s a damn artesian bore. It can’t simply have dried up?’

Jasperson scratched irritably at his crotch. ‘The cattle took off into Crawford’s. There’s water in that big hole on their side so that’s where they headed.’

Hamish considered the relevant facts. He had no water. Crawford did. ‘And the drain?’

‘I reckon they blocked it off.’

Hamish looked at his overseer: Filthy trousers, dust-covered boots and a clean shirt; the man’s one concession to a modicum of respectability. ‘You reckon?’ he repeated. Such a word didn’t exist in his vocabulary.

‘The boundary rider –’

Hamish took a sip of tea and uncrossed his legs as he lent sideways in his chair as if looking behind Jasperson. ‘I don’t see the boundary rider. I didn’t ask the boundary rider.’

McKenzie fiddled with his horse’s reins. Jasperson spat a globule of something wet and chewy on the ground. ‘It’s blocked. Crawford’s dug a trench to divert our bore drain water into the waterhole on the river.’

Hamish’s eyes narrowed. ‘And my stock?’ he enquired slowly, his dirty fingernails drumming his thigh.

‘Fifty or so head are running on Crawford Corner.’ Jasperson subtly directed any anger back towards the rightful owner.

Hamish slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. So this was how it was going to be. But he had him this time. He had Oscar Crawford for no less than stock theft. ‘Get my horse, Jasperson.’

‘Boss?’

If they left now they could reach the river at noon and wait out the hottest part of the day. Hamish paced the length of the verandah. Oscar Crawford needed to be taught a measure of responsibility. The man had grown insufferable. He’d shown uncommon bad sense in refusing Hamish’s over-generous offer to buy him out. His veins buzzed with anticipation.

‘Boss,’ Jasperson scratched thinning hair at his temples, ‘the drain’s been unblocked and the ditch filled in and hadn’t we best wait till after Christmas?’

Hamish stopped walking. ‘Yes, all right,’ he agreed dourly. He forced his legs to return to his chair. ‘Christmas.’ He glared at the Scottish boy, who, in response, quickly remounted his horse. ‘Well, we have his highly coveted stud master.’ Hamish’s hands grasped the wicker armrests and the fine cane cracked beneath his grip. His lips curled. ‘Let Crawford have his Christmas. Let him stuff his English belly on Wangallon meat. Eventually,’ he looked directly at Jasperson, ‘he will choke.’

The overseer gave a thin-lipped smile.

Lauren Grant lent further over the hessian bags of potato, flour and sugar in the small storeroom and steadied herself against the hard sacks. In between two of the stacked bags closest to the timber wall was a small gap where a brown mouse was sedately nibbling his way through one bag. The mouse tracked from one bag to another and Lauren imagined the little rodent tasting potato and then sugar in a delightful method of belly stuffing that would render him exhausted in the growing heat. Silently she concentrated on the mouse eating his fill as Mr Stevens proceeded to satisfy his own hunger. With her skirts thrown up about her waist, Lauren mentally began counting Mr Stevens’s panting. He was not much on ceremony and could be relied upon to conclude his business with a modicum of fuss.

Mr Stevens, a rangy man with a deep-set brow and a bony, finicky wife who was no doubt the cause of the deeply entrenched furrow between his eyes, gave a series of loud, breathy gasps. Lauren counted and then smelled eight exhalations of onion and the remnants of teeth-rotting food. Once he got to twelve she needed to brace herself against the wall, however today the hessian sacks were stacked in greater numbers and although she extended her arms, her fingers refused to touch the uneven timber wall before her. Instead Lauren found herself staring at the daylight seeping through the cracked timber and then, as her eyes gradually adjusted, into two pairs of eyes. The eyes giggled and kicked the outside wall before running away. ‘You scallywags,’ she berated as she was pushed forward onto the sacks. Mr Stevens gave a long sigh and then farted.

God’s holy trousers, Lauren thought with disgust. If ever a man knew how to ruin a perfectly harmless transaction it was this man with his less than fine personage, only just adequate dick and a voice like a squeaky wagon wheel bumping over a dirt track.

‘Good. Good girl. Take what you need.’

A triangle of light entered and left the storeroom. Lauren heard footsteps travelling the length of the narrow store and then a soft flipping sound, which signified the open/closed for business sign being adjusted. Picking herself up from where she had been so roughly shoved, Lauren patted her skirts down and tidied the wisps of hair that were matted with her sweat and the onion breath of the shopkeeper. She wanted more than potatoes and bread today, if you please. She had a hankering for eggs and a length of calico for a new skirt. Lauren peered around the uneven timber slats of the door. Mr Stevens expected her to leave by the rear window. To actually hitch up her skirts like her tabby cat of a sister Susanna and crawl from his sight. Well not today. Today was the last of such escapades. Though she’d been quite good, for recently only the ugly Scottish boy, McKenzie, and Mr Stevens had been regular.

On her reckoning Luke Gordon could be due in Wangallon Town at any moment. Lauren wiped at the line of sweat on her brow. Despite the morning’s undertakings she felt rather jaunty. The months of waiting were now behind her and she expected better things for her life in the new year. ‘Best be starting now,’ Lauren decided, firming her mouth and straightening her back. ‘Ouch.’ She pressed at the muscle in the small of her back, pinched her cheeks, although she doubted she needed the colour, scooped up a handful of potatoes and walked from the storeroom, her head high.Hilda Webb and her two daughters were arguing over their account at the long wooden counter, giving Lauren time enough to select a bolt of green material from the shelf. She snatched up a reel of cotton and a length of pink ribbon that she fancied and dropped them down the front of her loose fitting blouse, and then with a cursory glance at the rather cheap-looking shoes on display, she carried the material to the counter. Her presence immediately raised the ire of the women who were of the social conviction that one should not mix with the daughter of a washer woman.

‘Perhaps, Mr Stevens, you wish to serve this person. Then we can complete our business in private.’ Mrs Webb held scented pomade to her nose.

Lauren dumped the potatoes on the counter and rested the material alongside. ‘This person has a name, Mrs Webb,’ Lauren announced, summoning her best toff’s voice that she decided was quite wasted in Wangallon Town, ‘which you know well enough seeing you can’t keep staff for more than a few months due to your own ill-humour and it’s me own mother who washes your dirty smalls.’

Mrs Webb opened her lips only to discover that embarrassment and anger rendered her silent. The older Miss Henrietta Webb took her mother’s arm and, pulling her aside amid whispers and furtive glances, the two women busied themselves examining some handkerchiefs of very poor quality.

Lauren winked at Mr Stevens, whose permanent brow furrow had mysteriously smoothed with shock. ‘A length for a skirt, if you please, a dozen fresh eggs, a tin of condensed milk and I’ll be having a couple of those,’ Lauren pointed at the boiled lollies. The shopkeeper was staring at her as if she were some criminal straight off the boat from the mother country. ‘How is Mrs Stevens?’ Lauren wet her forefinger, her saliva marking a line across the dusty counter. ‘You’ll be needing a cleaner next, Mr Stevens. You ask Mrs Webb. People what are incapable of looking after themselves always need someone handy. Me, for example, I could give those pipes of yours,’ she pointed at the wooden smoking pipes on the shelf behind him, then glanced at his crotch, ‘a real good blow out.’ Lauren enjoyed herself by standing stock still as her material was cut and wrapped and her purchases bundled into a paper bag. ‘And I believe I would still have credit.’ With her belongings pushed across the width of the counter, Lauren held out her palm. ‘I could check with Mrs Stevens?’ Lauren snavelled up the coin thrown onto the counter.

Mr Stevens cleared his throat. ‘You don’t have credit here no more, Miss.’ He looked at her meaningfully.

Lauren tucked the bag under her arm and winked. ‘Neither do you, Mr Stevens.’

With her business completed, Lauren walked slowly past the three Webb women. The eldest girl, a peaky, skinnier version of her own cat’s-bum-mouthed sister, considered herself above the inhabitants of Wangallon Town. ‘I’ll give Mr Luke Gordon your best, Mr Stevens.’