A Changing Land(109)
‘Look about you,’ Luke countered. ‘There’s been little rain, the grasses are drying, already the soil floats away on the breeze. To leave a month early could find the cattle starving on the route. We will be early for any rains further south.’
‘The steers must be out of this country by week’s end otherwise a calamity will be upon us. Besides which, they are already being mustered up.’
‘So I’m figuring you have some plan of ill that makes you push this decision.’
‘They are my cattle and you work for me,’ Hamish said angrily.
So there it was. One was expected to stay and work for the ongoing benefit of both the Gordons and Wangallon, even though he himself was considered no better than the other stockmen on the property. ‘Then I quit.’ The words came out so suddenly that Luke was momentarily stunned by his own audacity. Both men glared at each other. Luke wondered only briefly at the repercussions of his statement. What did it matter? He’d decided not to return from this drive. He looked up at his father, at the man that was like a foreign country to him. He admired him for what he’d accomplished during his life, however he never truly felt like his son, knew that he was unsure, still, if he even wanted to be Hamish Gordon’s son for the man threw a long shadow and, so far, Luke had been unable to crawl free of it.
‘So be it,’ Hamish finally responded. ‘I would never stand in the way of a man burdened by stupidity.’ Hamish mounted his horse. ‘I don’t expect to see you again.’
William Crawford found his father at the dining table, a lone figure at the end of the gleaming hardwood that could comfortably seat twenty. He sat rather stiffly amid a selection of tureens arranged within ease of reach, although the food on his plate remained untouched and the crystal brandy decanter showed he had displayed a healthy interest. Billy, his page, although the eight-year-old was indeed of Aboriginal stock, waited patiently behind him dressed in the manor of an English estate domestic: breeches, waistcoat and jacket with the obligatory white stockings. The boy only needed a hand-held rattan fan to transport William back to the tropics.
‘Ah, my boy. You’re back. Good, good. Just in time for the evening meal although you missed a fine apple strudel at dinner today. Yes, a fine strudel.’
William took his place on his father’s left, poured a generous glass of French brandy and took a more than gentlemanly sip. Mr Hamish Gordon’s visiting card in the form of a garish purple and yellow bruise still graced his father’s left eye and cheek, and had clearly affected the grinding mechanisms of his jaw for it was a number of days since Gordon’s impudent visit and his father appeared to have lost some weight.
‘This weather, really, Father, I don’t know how you stand it,’ William announced, taking another sip of brandy and wincing at the warmth. He had friends in both Sydney and Melbourne who benefited from those new fangled ice chests and cellars that enjoyed the bedrock virtues of a cool environment. Here he was sitting among candle-flaming candelabras, the heavy gold damask curtains obliterating any hint of air.
‘The soup is excellent, cabbage, Mrs Dean informs me, with a hint of preserved orange.’
Billy ladled soup, offered William a finely rolled bun.
Oscar waited for his son to begin an oratory of the property. Having spent a number of days in the saddle, each trip longer than the one before, detail was expected. The exercise assisted with the return of his son’s usual placid character, a marked feature of the youth that had been missing since Hamish Gordon’s uninvited visit.
‘The soup is rather good,’ William admitted, finishing off the bowl and taking another sip of brandy. ‘Are you still intent on pursuing your scheme?’ he asked as Billy served a large slice of potato and mutton pie.
‘Ah, so you have been ruminating on our discussions. Yes, my boy. You forget we were here before that Scottish brigand weaselled his way onto Wangallon. I know his type: ruthless and unforgiving; a seeker of revenge in the truest sense.’
William stretched his torso, readying his appetite for the next course. The house boy was lighting candles about the room and opening curtains with the disappearing sun. William stuck his fork into the pie. He couldn’t doubt the flaky texture of the pastry, however the mutton was a little tough and the salt, well, it would drive a man to drink water until he was fit to burst. ‘Exactly my point. We’re not quite of that stock, Father, and …’
Oscar burped loudly and waved his linen napkin for silence. There really was no excuse for this type of rendering of one’s opinion, not after the master of the household, and he might add the veritable brains behind their fortune, was decided on a course of action. ‘William, I have discussed the situation in detail with Peters and Tremayne. Tremayne you will recall is a tracker of some repute.’