A Changing Land(102)
‘Did you see that swagger? That man gives skinny-hipped cowboy a whole new meaning.’ If Shelley were here Sarah knew she would be salivating and she would be inclined to agree. ‘Come on, Bullet.’ She was not looking forward to returning to the homestead and she resented the fact that Anthony had made her feel unwelcome in her family home. She rubbed her shins briskly. She would be pleased when spring arrived and the days began to lengthen. The winter was nasty this year, with biting winds and plant decimating frosts and the country seemed stagnant with cold. It was a cold that seeped through her bones and into her blood. It was as if the girl of her youth was now frozen and she doubted if upon thawing she would even recognise her own reflection.
With a shake of her head she walked towards the homestead, wondering what drama had unfolded at Boxer’s Plains years ago. How would she ever discover if what Toby talked about was true? It was always a bit difficult to wring reality from a good bush story. And the problem was that there was really no one left to ask. Except that Toby’s concern shadowed the adamant stance of both her father and Frank Michaels. Neither of them thought a development on Boxer’s Plains was a good idea. She was beginning to think that their opinions had very little to do with farming. Then she recalled the station ledgers that Angus had packed away years ago. There was a tin trunk somewhere. With a choice of freezing to death or facing Anthony, Sarah walked briskly towards the homestead. The lights were on. The winter sun, having dipped below the horizon, left a mass of cold dark earth on the moonless night and the chill penetrated Sarah’s boots. She thought briefly of the deal struck with Edward Truss that afternoon, of her horse ride down to the winter stillness of the creek and the soothing quiet of a land unburdened with problems.
After her next trip to Sydney, when she had more time, she’d go out to Boxer’s Plains and see if there really was an old house in the middle of the ridge.
Sarah opened the back door and took the stale mutton bone from the fridge. There was still a large portion of meat on it and Bullet hopped on his back legs in anticipation as she took the bone to the meat house. The screen door squeaked noisily on its hinges as she sat the mutton leg directly in the middle of the massive wooden chopping block and, meat cleaver in hand, struck the joint directly down the middle. The cooked bone broke apart easily. ‘Presto! Dinner, Bullet.’ She threw one bone on the cement path and set about washing down the chopping block with icy water from the garden hose. Bullet was waiting patiently for her to finish. ‘Ferret?’ Matt’s dog walked stiffly along the path, the cold weather making his steps painfully slow. Ferret sniffed at the bone and then clamped his teeth around it. Bullet picked up his own and together the two dogs walked back to the sandy protection of the tank stand. In the darkness she heard them growl, crunch and whine with delight.
‘Are you coming in or what?’
Sarah imagined Bullet lifting his dog brow at the tone of Anthony’s voice. Stepping out of the garden shadows, she turned off the hose and dropped it on the cement near the meat house.
Anthony sat at the end of the kitchen table, a half drunk can of beer in his hand and four empty soldiers lined up to his left. Sarah opened her mouth to speak.
Anthony shook his head and lifted his hand in silence.
‘That’s not very democratic, Anthony,’ Sarah replied, pulling her arms and head free of the thick navy cable jumper. It was damn hot in the kitchen. The old Aga was going and she was a fierce old woman who puffed smoke through cracks when she got over-heated. Sarah sniffed at the fumes gathering in the room. She’d only arrived back from the coast this morning and Anthony had ensured they’d barely talked, by making himself absent.
‘Here’s my summation of events.’
‘Great.’ Sarah sat at the table, rubbing her hands to warm them. Anthony never had been very good at holding his alcohol.
‘I waited for you to come back after Cameron died, waited for you after your engagement to Jeremy fell through. Hell, I’m still waiting for you to marry me.’ He took a sip of his beer and then sat the can on the table as if it had become distasteful. ‘Your father and I waited for you to get over Angus’s death and then –’ Anthony clicked his fingers – ‘ta da, suddenly you decide you aren’t involved enough in Wangallon’s management, suddenly you decide you want to be in charge.’ Anthony collected the beer cans and deposited them with a tinny crash on the sink. ‘But it gets better. Knowing there’s a recalcitrant half-brother floating around in the ether, poor old Anthony decides to rescue the situation. He devises a sure-fire way of making Wangallon more productive, so that when, and I emphasise when, a portion of the place has to be sold to pay out said half-brother, Wangallon will survive. But does Sarah listen to him? No. In fact Sarah pulls rank and has a chat to the bank. I bet that was an interesting conversation. Did you tell them it was me putting Wangallon’s affairs at risk? Did you tell them it was my fault, that I’d been overspending and now an increase was needed on our overdraft? I’m wondering, does Sarah know how offensive that is to me? Does Sarah even care how offensive it is to me?’