A Changing Land

Luke followed the voice to a male form sitting some feet away. It was Boxer. Lee turned the flame up on a kerosene lamp.

‘So this is where you old people get to when my father’s calling,’ said Luke.

Boxer coughed a little, drew a deep breath. ‘Special occasion, young fella come back.’

Luke accepted the small glass of watered down rum and threw the liquid down his throat. ‘And Mungo. He’s a good stockman, Boxer.’

The old black coughed again. ‘Better be.’

As Luke’s eyes grew accustomed to the light the hut came into focus. At the opposite end there was a handmade wooden chair, a bench holding cast iron cooking pots, small sacks of dried goods and a clutch of quails’ eggs. Along one length was a narrow bed and across from it, Lee’s altar. It was from here that the smell of incense originated. A streak of smoke rose into the air from a ceramic holder. It sat surrounded by a collection of small bowls holding offerings. On the wall behind, tacked up with two nails, hung a torn banner inscribed with Chinese characters.

‘My grandmother died,’ Luke said slowly, drawing his eyes away from the remnants of Lee’s lost culture. ‘You remember her, don’t you, Lee? My mother’s mother? She ran the emporium. What was she like?’

Lee’s dark eyes were sunken as if beginning to withdraw from this world. ‘At Ridge Gully, yes, yes.’ Lee was tempted to tell Luke that the woman liked the pleasures of the flesh. That she paraded her daughter around like a bag of jewels until Master Hamish swallowed her up. ‘One should not speak of the ancestors,’ he cautioned, dipping his finger into the murky contents of his glass and sucking at his dirty nail.

‘You have much sadness?’ Boxer asked as he dragged heavily on his pipe.

‘No, not much,’ Luke said truthfully. ‘I never met her.’

‘Her daughter was like a scared rabbit,’ Boxer continued. ‘I remember; too pale, not strong enough for the spirits of this country.’ Boxer sucked again on his pipe.

‘Not strong enough for many things,’ Luke agreed, his finger flicking at an ant. ‘All my family are dead now, except for Hamish and Angus.’

‘And you,’ Lee pointed his wiry finger directly at him.

‘Sure, I’m still around.’ Luke got to his feet, marvelling at how old bones could sit cross-legged for hours on end when he could barely last a few minutes. ‘I admire your loyalty to my father, both of you.’

Lee bowed his head.

Boxer stared at him. ‘Mebbe it’s easy to follow those who do not forgive. The Boss’s path is undivided and for some there is strength in such a life. And remember,’ he chewed on the thickness of his bottom lip, ‘the Boss is favoured by the old people,’ he glanced skywards, ‘for he looks after mother earth who is home to us all. As for those who do not walk the earth now,’ Boxer continued, ‘well perhaps they did not wish to do so; or mebbe Wangallon didn’t want them.’

‘Come, come,’ Lee bustled Luke from the hut. ‘You come back later.’ Alone with Boxer, Lee hunched his shoulders, pulling a plug of tobacco from the pouch at his waist. ‘The boy thinks he is alone in the world, that all that were of blood to him are dead excepting his own father and the boy, Angus.’ Lee stuffed his wooden pipe with the tobacco, clamped it between the remains of his teeth and looked at Boxer. ‘He is not. There is another.’ He sighed heavily. ‘There is always another.’

Boxer’s wide forehead halved in size as the whites of his eyes increased.The Landcruiser lurched across the paddock. Matt never did mind the odd bump and Sarah found herself clutching at the hand bar on the dash as the vehicle found its way into every pothole on the rough track. A heavy dew was only just starting to dissipate and silvery cobwebs crisscrossed the grass. Beneath the tufts the soil was almost bare. Thanks to the lack of rain there was no clover or herbage, winter feed coveted by both cattle and sheep. From the branches of scattered trees, birds fluffed and preened themselves, silver-crested cockatoos competed with the brilliant red and blue plumage of bush parrots, while small bush budgies darted for insects. Sarah smiled, despite the drying countryside. Ahead the road forked into two. One track led to the creek and the family cemetery, with a wider road diverging off it towards the cavernous woolshed and sheep yards. The other bypassed the ridge and paddock where Cameron had been killed, to circumnavigate the boundary of Wangallon. Matt turned down the latter and stopped at the first of many gates, grinning cheekily. ‘It’s the first of twelve.’

Sarah wasn’t surprised when she guessed their destination. She just hoped that the overstocking problem she’d envisioned had not decimated the block too much. Boxer’s Plains had been the last property purchased by the Gordons. For that reason it retained a special place in the family’s collective history. When her father, Ronald, suggested purchasing more land in the late 70s, Angus made it clear he wasn’t interested in following the expansionary vision of his own father, choosing instead to embark on a major improvement plan. Money was spent on renewing ageing fences, building cattle yards and renovating staff accommodation; trees were thinned out to allow an increase in natural pasture growth and in turn the stock-carrying capacity of the country increased. Angus Gordon’s legacy was that of a highly efficient property, with excellent infrastructure and a stock-per-acre ratio that was envied by neighbours, especially during periods of drought when his management skills weeded out the men from the boys.

Finally reaching the Wangallon River, they crossed the army bridge Angus purchased and erected in the fifties. A wide stream of muddy water moved sluggishly beneath them as they rattled over the wooden boards, disturbing two grey kangaroos on the bank below. Old box trees marked the line of past floods, while a track leading down the steep bank to the water and reappearing on the other side was a reminder that this waterway could easily be crossed in times of severe drought.

It was unlike Matt to be quiet for so long. Although a person of uncommon calm, Sarah knew that prolonged silence in the man usually meant something significant was weighing on his mind. She settled into a guise of steely resolve that she’d been told on occasion was expected by a Gordon. Frankly she didn’t quite think those characteristics were particularly well developed in her.

They drove through a stretch of lignum, the thick, woody plants cloaking their view both left and right. As always, Sarah felt unsettled visiting this part of Wangallon. It was as if she were entering another country, one cut off from the world, and imagined it was the wide river boundary that set the block apart. Then the road broadened out to run beneath a canopy of trees before revealing an open expanse of sky and land. Sarah heard the metallic hum of machinery as Matt pulled up under the shade of a box tree and handed Sarah a pair of binoculars.

‘You’ll get a better view of things if you stand in the back,’ he suggested.

Stepping up into the Landcruiser’s tray, Sarah raised the binoculars to her eyes. For a moment she felt she was part of a dream. Two large tractors were pulling heavy discs behind them, cutting and turning the rich black soil beneath. To their left a shimmer of metal caught her attention. ‘My God!’

‘Yep.’ Matt joined her and together they stared out across the wrecked paddock in the direction of the two D9 bulldozers. Sarah heard a crack and then a second later a tree tumbled to the ground.

‘They started two days ago,’ Matt volunteered. ‘They reckon we’ll get about 2000 acres of cultivation where these offset discs are working. No trees to knock down so it’s pretty cost-effective.’

‘Cost-effective,’ Sarah repeated. All she could think about was the beautiful grassland that was being ruined and the trees on the horizon that had provided shade in the summer and protection in the winter for their sheep and cattle. ‘Where are the ewes? The cows?’

‘Out there somewhere,’ Matt waved a hand in a vague northerly direction. ‘Pushed up against the far boundary, I reckon, trying to escape the intrusion.’

‘It was overstocked.’ It was more a statement than a question but when Matt nodded Sarah couldn’t help herself. ‘Why didn’t you say something to me?’

Matt frowned. ‘I queried Anthony on two occasions about the stock numbers. And I’ve been out here the last couple of Sundays to check on things. Actually I intended to tell him today that we would have to start moving stock out, and then I saw this.’

‘But Matt, this is too much. Are you telling me Anthony did this?’ What a stupid question. Who else would it be?

Matt studied the moonscape before them, avoiding the ticklish situation of an emotional woman. He began the painstaking process of rolling a cigarette. He could crack a snake’s back like a stockwhip and hang onto a snarling wild cat by the tail, but a slow discharge of sadness was beyond him. ‘I couldn’t go to you on a hunch, Sarah. Nor can I play favourites. I’m a hired hand.’

‘Jesus, Matt, first and foremost you work for Wangallon.’ Sarah jumped out of the back of the vehicle. ‘Drive over. I want this to stop immediately.’

They moved slowly across the uneven ground, once or twice bogging down in the freshly turned earth, Matt accelerating to bring them clear. Only when they drew level with the dozers did Sarah see the extent of their work; great trees and stringy saplings all bowed down between the great lumbering chain linking the dozers together. The metal links, each as large as a football, crawled across the ground collecting everything in their wake.

‘The country will be far more valuable once it’s cleared, Sarah.’

‘Not everything is about money,’ she snapped back, instantly regretting her tone.

‘Maybe not, but even if Anthony didn’t intend to farm it, imagine the increased stock numbers we would be able to run once the dozers get into that heavily timbered country. He is doing very selective clearing. Once the trees are gone the grasses will grow back tenfold.’

Sarah considered Matt’s comments. He was not one to speak idly. ‘Well, Matt, I don’t agree with this, especially considering the way it’s been handled. Besides which, it’s being ploughed up. Where the hell are we meant to run the cattle and sheep that usually graze here?’ She ran irritated fingers through her hair. ‘Then there is the monetary side. How much is this going to cost?’

‘Upwards of two hundred thousand dollars, with the work to be done in two stages. At least that’s what the contractor tells me. I haven’t spoken to Anthony about it.’

Sarah felt physically ill.

‘His intention is to clear all of Boxer’s Plains eventually. Personally I don’t think it’s a good idea. Farming is costly. You’ve got spraying and machinery and the vagaries of the weather. Then there is the infrastructure: you need silos to store seed, trucks for cartage to the rail lines at harvest …’

‘The list goes on.’

‘Pretty much.’ Matt drew up to the side of the one of the dozers and got out to speak to the driver.

In an hour these men would be hunting down Anthony, querying him furiously as to why a stop-work mandate had been suddenly imposed on them. ‘This is going to be difficult,’ Sarah admitted as they headed back to the homestead. ‘Can we get those cows from Boxer’s Plains out on the stock route pronto?’

‘Sure thing, Sarah.’

‘Good. And the sheep?’ They drove through the house paddock gate.

‘They’ll be right. We can feed them out there.’ Matt’s knuckles were white, gripping the steering wheel.

‘I’ll get the corn delivered asap. We can store it in the portable 25 tonne silo and then fill up the sheep feeder when needed.’ Sarah knew that like her, Matt was mad as hell. Yet beyond her anger lay something far more distressing; there was a terrible unravelling within her. Anthony had broken her trust.Jim Macken finished reading the file and closed the manila folder. He glanced uneasily at his mother, who smiled at him nervously. He knew her opinion. She believed he should be leaving well enough alone. With her usual quiet movements she walked into the kitchen and closed the door. Jim heard the rattle of the water tap as it came to life and the solid click of a kitchen cupboard. She would be making tea, strong and hot, perhaps pouring a nip of whisky into hers to ward off the melancholy that stalked her these days. It was true that his mother wished Sarah Gordon had never come to their country. And it was equally true that neither of them would have believed that he could be heir to land in Australia.

‘The place has been willed to you fair and square by Angus Gordon himself,’ said Robert Macken, chewing on the stem of his pipe.

Jim flicked back through the folder. ‘I still can’t believe you waited so long to tell me.’

‘Probate took some time, I told you that, lad; and there was a clause in the will that gave us until next month to respond. I was not of a mind to use it, but your mother insisted. She didn’t want to rush things. We only want what’s best for you,’ his father persevered.

‘Do you?’ Normally his father would begin arguing. They had always argued and the past that grows between father and son is always difficult to erase, no matter whether it has been good or bad. Yet their relationship was now altered. For three weeks Robert had not been his blood father and although Robert knew of his wife’s pregnant state before they were betrothed, the revelation of Jim’s natural father caused a marked alteration in their reasonably contented existence.

‘Now what type of a question is that?’

It was one Jim decided was plain enough, for he knew where his mother’s preference lay. She would sooner see him a pauper than open himself up to grief. As for his father, or his Scottish father as he’d mentally begun addressing the man who’d clothed and fed him, he was beginning to see the makings of what pride could do when there was the opportunity of mixing it with a little revenge.

‘You owe them nothing, lad. Think of the money.’

The sentence was punctuated by the re-entry of his mother, carrying a white plastic tray. Her eyes met his as she placed the cups of tea on the wooden table with a slight clatter of crockery. When she sat again in the wooden rocker that once belonged to her own mother, her hands were wrapped securely around the hot tea. Her cheeks were tinged a becoming red, her eyes soft. More than a nip had been consumed, of that Jim was sure.

‘Jim’s existence has been acknowledged, surely that is enough.’ She blew carefully at the steaming tea; the rocking chair ceased its gentle sway. ‘Besides,’ his mother continued softly, ‘it is Jim’s decision.’

Robert huffed loudly, the noise of his teeth chewing at the pipe filled the room. ‘This is a will, woman. There is no decision. I know we’ve all had much to come to terms with,’ he nodded in his son’s direction, ‘but it’s past the time for waiting. It’s not fair to them –’ his large thumb pointed at the folder – ‘nor us. This is a lot of money. The whole family could benefit from it.’

‘And what happened, Robert Macken, to being happy with our life? How many times in the past have you sat at this very table and told Jim not to wish for greater things, to appreciate his life,’ she held up a quivering finger to his obvious desire to interrupt, ‘and I agreed. We have food and a roof over our heads and the things that have been most blessed to me remain so. My family, this place where I shall live and die, sleek cattle, the pungent scent of peat …’

Robert gulped at his own tea. ‘Don’t be idiotic, woman. Your son is a descendent of the Gordon clan. He is entitled to his inheritance. How, as his mother, could you possibly ask him to ignore this?’ He waved a typed letter in the air, the thick creamy paper crackling with the action.

‘The money doesn’t belong to you, Jim.’ His mother continued sipping at her tea.

Jim admired how a woman of such impoverished birth could turn down the chance of wealth, yet it also surprised him she remained so adamant.

‘Rubbish.’ Robert folded the letter carefully, placing it on the narrow mantlepiece above the fire.

Part of Jim wished that Sarah Gordon had never visited his country; for it was only through their chance meeting and friendship that they both eventually learnt of his blood ties to her family. At moments it had been too much, his wayward mother, the father who was not his father, every important element in his life had been controlled by someone, even the timing of when he should learn of his real father’s identity and the contents of Angus Gordon’s will. Jim listened as Robert and his mother argued. It was no longer just about the will, it was about lost love for his mother and the harbouring of resentments for Robert.

‘Think of the money, Jim. It is rightfully yours,’ Robert argued, gulping the scalding tea as if his mouth was lined with asbestos.

To Jim it was money borne of sadness. His clearest memory of Sarah was the day they walked in the heather, gradually ascending one of his favourite hills until, at the rocky summit, they had looked out into the distant lochs below, stringing out like small puddles of water that a child could jump. For indeed that was how he felt. On first meeting the Australian he’d experienced the most comfortable of sensations. It was like coming home after a long journey. ‘It doesn’t feel right. It’s like something the English would do, taking over something that isn’t rightfully theirs. Like here where they’ve resumed land and forced us to eke out a living on these tiny blocks; generational Scots relegated to bed-and-breakfasts and scrounging for a living.’

‘Then do something about it,’ Robert interrupted with an impatient wave of his fist. ‘The Gordons are worth millions. You’ve been offered a thirty per cent share. Get your money and come back and do something positive. Stop you and yours from bowing at the feet of the likes of Lord Andrews and his family.’

Frankly Jim could see little that was positive. He’d spent three months pining for a girl who turned out to be his half-sister. And even though loneliness had made him believe he cared for her, it didn’t stop him from feeling stupid and uncomfortable at the prospect of sharing in her inheritance.

Jim’s mother shook her head. ‘You love Scotland, Jim, almost as much as I do. You don’t need to say anything, I can see it in your eyes. You smile at the wild landscape, feel the comfort of home when you step upon her springy heather and breathe in the bracing air when the wind blows across the loch. How you feel for your country, how you worry for the people of the north is what makes you Scottish. Remember that, for if you go to Australia and take your share, you will be destroying Sarah’s home. Imagine how she will feel.’

‘Enough of your melancholic women’s tales.’ Robert was on his feet, tugging at his homespun woollen jumper. ‘Regardless of your inclination, the facts remain the same, lad. You only need direct the solicitor to give you the value in cash. Either you make the call or I will.’

‘I’d imagine Sarah would have to sell a part of the property.’ His mother’s softly persuasive tone resonated through the cramped confines of their living area.

‘And who are you most concerned about, Sarah or her father?’ Robert left the small crofter’s cottage, slamming the door behind him.

Jim looked from his untouched tea to his beloved mother. Having already discussed the possibility of him flying to Australia, it was now becoming increasingly important to him as the days progressed. He would prefer to have never known about his true parentage, yet he needed to meet his real father. And there was another part of him, he guessed the Gordon part, that wanted to see the land that a Scot managed to carve out for himself over one hundred and thirty years ago. If only his mother were not so against the idea.

He walked outside to a day grown bright. From their small house on the edge of the hill, patches of heather extended outwards, interspersed with rocks and dirt. The landscape extended downwards towards the loch that shimmered invitingly in the midmorning light. Hands shoved deep in the pockets of his corduroy trousers, Jim walked the slight distance between house and water, his sturdy lace-ups crunching pebbles underfoot. His mother was right – he did love this land.

He was unaware of her presence until her warm hand linked itself through his arm. Together they stared out at the loch, at the treeless hills surrounding the water’s grey beauty.

‘If you go to Australia you may get your inheritance, Jim,’ she touched his cheek gently, ‘but you will lose your Sarah forever and you will never be the same on your return.’ She squeezed his arm tenderly. ‘She won’t be able to forgive you if she is her father’s daughter.’

His mother’s voice trembled. Jim patted her hand. ‘Yet he is my father as well.’ And you loved him he thought sadly. He leant down to select a smooth pebble at his feet. ‘He wronged you.’ He turned the pale grey stone in his fingers, weighing the cool rock carefully. There were unsaid words within his mother’s pale eyes. He sensed a need for her to unburden. Jim waited for her to speak, imagined a shifting of memories, a sorting of explanations dulled by time and censored by a mother’s love. The moment was blown aimlessly away by a lift in the morning breeze. Angrily he flung the pebble expertly across the loch’s surface. The rock skipped effortlessly across the face of the wind-rippled water, and on the fifth bounce it sank from view.Mrs Stackland shooed the two maids out of her way and opened the oven door on the cast iron stove with a thick piece of towelling. She swiftly turned the loaf of bread and cinnamon biscuits out onto the wooden table; the aroma of freshly baked goods circulated with the scent of burning wood. Mrs Stackland prodded at both bread and biscuits, a slight smile the only indication of her pleasure. With a beckoning nod of her greying head she gestured to the younger and less clumsy of her helpers, Margaret, showing the girl how to prise the warm biscuits off the baking tray and place them to cool on a wire rack.

‘Mind you don’t break any. We don’t serve broken biscuits at table,’ Mrs Stackland reprimanded her newest recruit as the thin, agile fingers placed the biscuits carefully on the rack. She dabbed at her brow with the length of her apron, uncomfortably aware of the moisture soaking the back and front of her bodice. ‘Butter and dripping, Margaret, and be quick, girl.’ The kitchen would be a furnace by midday if she didn’t have the majority of her menu prepared by eleven. There was little time for dawdling.

A large scrub turkey, plucked and ready for roasting, sat wrapped in a swathe of calico. Lifting a heavy pan from a side table she unwrapped the freshly killed bird and sat it tenderly in it. She surveyed the pile of vegetables to be peeled, then there was the plum pudding that had to be reheated in the steam boiler and an apple pie to be baked, for Mr Gordon demanded pie twice a week, Christmas or not. And Lee, Mrs Stackland realised with some irritation, was late with the preserved lemons for the custard and the bush quail she intended making into a tasty pie. She cut the fresh bread smartly in two and placed half the loaf onto a large tray, adding a plate of the biscuits. From the shelf above the stove she took the teapot and added a good handful of tea-leaves and then water from the steaming kettle. A quick glance confirmed the near completion of sizzling meat in a large skillet. Martha, the older of the maids, poked at it disinterestedly, as if she had something better to do than to ensure Mr Gordon’s meat was perfect.

‘Come, come. Hurry up, girl.’

The rebuke was addressed to Margaret, who was returning from the food safe located on the shady eastern side of the homestead. ‘Did you top-up the trays?’

‘Yes Ma’am.’ The girl held a pad of butter in one hand, a container of dripping in the other.

‘Good.’ The safe was constructed like a cupboard with hessian walls sitting in drip trays of water. The water soaked into the hessian and if a light wind blew, it created a remarkably cool atmosphere. Trying to explain the importance of keeping food cool and unspoilt, however, was a daily challenge. ‘And I think of those city folk with their fancy ice chests. Why they’ve no idea.’ Mrs Stackland set the butter on the tray with the bread, biscuits and tea. ‘Right you are then, lass. Take that into the Master and Mrs Gordon and do try not to slop anything.’

‘Yes Ma’am.’

‘And do stand up straight.’

‘Yes Ma’am.’

Mrs Stackland observed the girl’s studied concentration and slightly wobbly progression with undisguised concern, before turning her attention to the skillet. With a bustling movement of her wide hips, she sent the sullen Martha in the direction of the vegetables. Wrapping her towel around the burning hot handle, she served up the meat.

‘Have I not told you to tidy yourself before entering the dining room?’ Mrs Stackland tutted irritably at Margaret on her return. Dabbing at the girl’s shiny face, she set the plates on the tray and handed it to the girl. ‘They don’t wish to have their meals served to them by a maid dripping in sweat. Mr Gordon first and then Mr Luke and then –’

‘I’ll be having mine right here,’ Luke announced, lifting a plate from the tray.

‘Right. Well, then,’ Mrs Stackland stammered in surprise as her kitchen found itself with the unusual presence of a male who was neither Chinese nor child. Luke Gordon, gone near eight months, was a rare sight at Wangallon indeed.

Luke, aware his intrusion had momentarily thrown the usual precision order of the kitchen into disarray, winked jauntily at Wangallon’s cook, then grinned at the maid. Clearly she was a half-caste, for her lighter skin contrasted obviously with the ebony of her companion. Her large brown eyes cast him a direct glance and then she was gone, her footsteps padding lightly across the polished cypress pine floorboards. Luke cocked his left eyebrow. The girl was a new addition and a pleasant one at that. Positioning himself at the far end of the table, he cut into the mutton chops with relish, appreciatively nodding at Mrs Stackland as she sliced two pieces of bread for him. He dropped the bread onto his plate, scraping the thick crusty dough through the juices. Adding a slice of meat, he chewed hungrily, reaching for the dripping to smear a thick layer of it onto his second piece of bread.

‘The missus says the biscuits are good.’ Margaret directed the statement to no one in particular as she re-entered the kitchen, although she made a point of looking at Luke.

Shooing the girl back with a wave of her hand, Mrs Stackland gave both maids firm instructions as to how the peel the vegetables. ‘And make sure there is a good dollop of dripping in the pan, but don’t put them on until I tell you. I want that bird half-cooked before they go in. Yes, Margaret you can put it on now. Well, Martha, don’t stand there like a dumb cluck. Open the oven door. For goodness sake use some towelling or you’ll burn up so bad you’ll lose the use of your hand. And tie back that long hair of yours.’

Luke glanced at Martha. She was a bigger build than her lighter-skinned companion, with rounded hips and breasts and a slow way about her movements. He figured this was Mungo’s woman, with her long dark hair and newness to the tasks required of a maid.

Mrs Stackland poured tea for both of them. ‘I confine myself to two glasses of water a day,’ she admitted. ‘The first laced with a little cod-liver oil for the digestion –’ she looked across at the maids and lowered her voice – ‘the second with a teaspoon of brandy for the constitution.’ She held up a tin of condensed milk. ‘Truly this is the greatest of inventions.’

‘Merry Christmas.’ Lee appeared, dumping two full cast iron buckets on the wooden table, the movement shuddering the table’s contents; rattling cups and saucers, pots and skillets and spilling the tea in Mrs Stackland’s cup.

‘And Merry Christmas to you too, Lee,’ Luke replied as the maids screeched at his unannounced entry and the cook admonished him for disrupting her domain.

Lee, appearing to ignore the remarks, began to empty the contents of the two buckets. There were two glass jars, one of preserved lemons, the other oranges, two small cabbages, some potatoes, carrots, onions, two plucked quails and an assortment of wilted-looking herbs. Lee separated the clutch of herbs, dirt spilling out from the furry roots onto both table and floor. He pushed the quails and a bunch each of sage and parsley towards Mrs Stackland. ‘Put inside,’ he stated, waving a scrawny finger from the herbs to the quail.

‘We’re having pie,’ Mrs Stackland answered as she meticulously sorted through the fare as if she were selecting goods from a street vendor in George Street, Sydney.

‘Put inside,’ Lee repeated, the long nail on his pinkie finger extended at the birds.

‘Thank you for the lemons,’ Mrs Stackland said brusquely. ‘They will do nicely for my custard.’

‘Put inside.’ Lee smiled, forcing his cheeks into circles of puffy flesh.

Luke slurped down his scalding tea as their argument continued over the herbs and then moved on to the caterpillar-chewed cabbages. He watched Margaret select two cut lengths of timber from the wood box and place them smartly into the slow combustion stove. Her dark hair was tied back into a thick bun on the nape of her neck and she was a slim, lithe little thing.

‘After lunch I want you two girls to busy yourselves beating out the dirty carpets, then sweep the hall and change the linen on young Master Angus’s bed,’ Mrs Stackland ordered in between her arguing. ‘And don’t be forgetting the cleaning of the silver and Margaret the copper will have to be fired up for the washing and Martha do clean the flat-iron …’

‘Oh, Mrs Stackland, are you there?’

Claire’s clear, light voice carried sweetly towards the kitchen. Luke glanced at the doorway and thought of the nine months since he’d last seen Claire Whittaker Gordon. All of a sudden he needed air and space. He slipped silently out the back door.‘Mrs Stackland tells me you prefer the company of our staff, Luke.’

Luke heard the rustle of her skirts. It was a sound from his earliest memories of the girl who would eventually marry his father. He left the upturned bucket where he had been enjoying a quiet smoke and stubbed the thin roll-your-own out with the heel of his boot, purposely busying himself with the action. ‘I never was one for airs and graces,’ he answered flatly, keeping his broad back to Claire. Now she was near him again after so many months, he wished her gone.

‘Where have you been? Your father tells me you arrived yesterday.’

‘Busy.’ He’d never quite seen the point of all the civilising his father enjoyed and his years droving had bred into him a preference for quiet meals with little talk. ‘Are you enjoying your Christmas, Auntie Claire?’ He did not mean for the words to come out so tightly and he cursed himself inwardly. He turned towards her, steeling himself lest any outward sign of his thoughts should be revealed. She was dressed all in white. The material draped gently over her bust and was inlaid with lace and net chiffon. On her head she wore a large hat with a curved brim. She was a study in decadence for a woman who lived on a remote station. ‘I remember you sitting in the schoolroom with that fancy tutor from Sydney,’ Luke said, ‘learning all those languages and me with my readers in the corner.’

There were fine wisps of grey fanning out from her forehead now and the line of her proud jaw was softening. ‘I never thought you would stay, you know,’ he continued. The high-spirited teenager with the lustrous black hair and winning smile always appeared so ill-suited to both Wangallon and Hamish Gordon.

Claire gave a small confused frown. ‘I never considered leaving.’ She removed a finely embroidered lawn handkerchief from the sleeve of her bodice and dabbed at her neck above the high-topped blouse. ‘You will join us for Christmas lunch, Luke. Your father would be so pleased.’

‘He has you and Angus,’ he smiled wryly, ‘and Jasperson for that matter. There’s no one else coming to be needing me for appearances’ sake.’ Last year he had argued with Jasperson and he would not on his life ruin another Christmas for Claire. He found the man’s company abominable. Luke thought of the men and women who had crossed his path during his life to date. There was always some imperceptible sign that gave their true nature away. An undeserved remark, a lie for self-gain, or the physical reactions of the human body, such as the careless whore in Wangallon Town who, having overestimated her importance, had frowned at the extra coin he’d been prepared to give her. Apart from the man’s predilection for young boys, the other hated truth of Jasperson was his meanness of spirit. Luke’s fingers touched the tortoiseshell hair comb in his trouser pocket.

Claire sighed. ‘Must you always be so stubborn? Come walk with me.’

The warmth of her slim arm through his was accompanied by a bittersweet stab of pleasure. Luke smelled lavender water and the sweet musky scent that was indefinably hers. Claire smiled up at him as they walked through Lee’s garden and out into the orchard, which Lee had watered daily for over thirty years. It was a sight Luke would always remember for the patience and sturdy persistence it required; the bow legs and flapping pigtail and the long pole slung over his slight shoulders, which carried the two buckets of water.

Claire was walking in short stilted steps. ‘Have we grown so poor, Claire, that there is not enough money to buy enough material for your dress?’

She gave a laugh. ‘The fashionable ladies call it a hobble skirt for its lack of movement. And I admit to not being partial to its constraints.’

‘Then why wear it?’

‘Why, to be fashionable, of course.’ Claire gave his arm a quick squeeze. ‘It is good to see you, Luke. It has been an abominably boring year. When it stops raining, everyone seems to disappear; no parties, dances, balls. I have given only five soirees, with few attendees, and was staggered to see a number of my companions in last season’s gowns. Are things so very bad?’

Luke patted her hand, her skin dewy beneath his calloused fingers. ‘Not everyone has the advantages that come from a substantial property such as Wangallon, and there have been a few rumblings with some of the Aborigines a little south of us and you know how quickly that makes folk shun travelling.’

Claire’s mouth drooped prettily. ‘You think me shallow. It is only that there is no one with whom I can discuss matters of importance. And with Angus growing so quickly time seems to be spreading out before me. Our regular highlight is the interminable church picnic Hamish insists we attend. I’m not being disagreeable; however, I long for interesting, educated conversation.’

They strolled silently beneath the trees in the orchard, dappled light creating moving patterns on their clothing. Leaves, sparse grass and twigs crunched beneath their shoes as they walked first up one short avenue of trees and then turned to walk down the next. Beyond the orchard the open countryside beckoned. A murmur of a breeze stirred the branches above, the scents of the bush growing more distinguishable as they ventured to the end of the orchard. Luke could smell the brittleness of the grasses contrasting with Lee’s recently watered vegetable garden and the faint scent of rotting fruit. Claire’s arm remained pressed against his and for a moment he considered resting his free hand over hers, his sense of contentment was such.

‘This is for you.’ He placed the tortoiseshell comb in the palm of her hand, the pleasure of his giving increased by the delighted smile on Claire’s face.

‘Oh, Luke, thank you. It’s so very pretty.’ She tucked the comb into her hair beneath her hat. ‘Well, what do you think?’ She pirouetted like a young girl.

He searched for a suitable word. ‘Very becoming.’

She giggled, took his arm once again. ‘You’re spoiling me with these yearly gifts you bring. In this household one is lucky if your father even acknowledges the day. I can’t understand the fascination the Scots have for celebrating New Year’s Day. For me the festivities are over by then.’

Her words broke the quiet enjoyment of the moment. Luke turned abruptly towards the homestead, dropping her arm simultaneously. ‘Couldn’t we just once have a conversation without my father shadowing everything?’

‘I only meant that … I’m sorry.’