A Changing Land(133)
Outside Anthony fed Bullet and Ferret some dog biscuits. Pulling on his heavy jacket he walked down the cement path to the slobbering noise of munching canines. He had a mind to go into town, maybe have a few drinks and a pizza at the Wangallon Town pub. The trouble was that visiting the pub was becoming a dangerous pastime. Anastasia could sniff out a relationship domestic as quickly as any single woman. Last night after closing he hadn’t immediately complained when she’d slipped onto his lap and gently prised his mouth apart with her tongue. Although he’d only succumbed for a few minutes, he’d enjoyed it. He felt for his wallet, ran his fingers through his hair and looked back at the old homestead with the outside light glowing and the scent of smoke layering the air from the kitchen Aga. Forget Anastasia, he mumbled. If it went any further the guilt would kill him. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t the decent thing to do. You needed to finish a relationship before you started another, even if it was just a fling.
The temperature was beginning to drop as he walked towards the worksheds. There was a sneaky southerly gaining momentum. He hadn’t seen Matt today. Jack reckoned he had a woman visiting. That was all he needed. A bothersome female disrupting Wangallon’s routine. Well he’d give it a week and see how things went. It could just be the excuse he needed to fire the man. Out in the west a layer of pink-tinted cloud travelled in an arrowhead formation to dip at the horizon. Too many hours cooped up during the evening made him maudlin, especially when he was alone. Somehow the house just didn’t seem as hospitable when Sarah was away, or perhaps he was just no good at keeping himself company. Better to be outside. His eyes fell on the motorbike. Pulling his gloves from the pocket of his jacket, Anthony kick-started the Yamaha and with a spurt of gravel, headed away from the homestead.
He wasn’t really sure where he intended to go. It felt great to be free, to have the icy air needling him awake. Soon the brain deadening effects of the beer subsided and the dirt road consumed his attention. A quick spin, he promised himself, figuring there were a few daylight minutes left. The gate out to the western boundary was open and, worried about boxing stock together, Anthony rode on. The next gate was open as well. He swore under his breath, his cursing increasing in severity when he spotted cow manure on the road. ‘That bloody Toby,’ Anthony muttered, accelerating as he continued westward. Obviously Matt forgot to double-check the gates. ‘Typical,’ he said loudly, the wind swallowing his words. ‘No doubt he’s holed up with his woman.’
With the remnants of the day quickly disappearing, Anthony considered returning to the homestead and swapping his bike for the cruiser. He came to a halt on the road, his legs spread wide for balance. The evening star appeared, and although he was losing the light he wanted to ensure the heifers and bulls were still safe in their respective paddocks. He flicked on the bike’s headlight. It wasn’t as if he had anyone waiting at home. When he rode off Anthony was unaware his wallet had fallen from his pocket.
Thirty minutes later he reached the Wangallon River and halted at the bridge. A string of twinkling lights filled the sky, merging to become an arc of light. He leant on one leg, the weight of the bike balanced beneath him. Across the wooden span the far side of the river melted into the darkness as a flash of red and white hide disappeared. Anthony rubbed his gloved hands together. ‘Got you’. He crossed the bridge, aware of the void beneath, conscious of an emptiness that went beyond the space between wood and water. Despite his brain telling him to return home, Anthony rode on through the thick lignum, entranced by the sight of fossicking wallabies caught in his headlight.
At night the country looked very different. It was easy to lose your direction without a track to follow, for the darkness and depth of the landscape tended to distort distances and objects, yet it was also an enchanting time to be out. Anthony braked and, turning off the ignition, swivelled the handlebars from left to right. The beam cut through the dark of the tree-canopied bush, highlighting rabbits, ant hills and a squealing black sow with four little suckers trotting determinedly behind their mother. To his right he heard the familiar bash of heavy bodies travelling through thick scrub. With this sound his trip was rewarded, for the heavy tread of cattle was unmistakeable. Matt and Jack could return in the morning, re-muster the block and then call on the expert Toby Williams to pick up the ones missed. Anthony only hoped the bulls weren’t boxed up.
He restarted the motorbike, passing kangaroos curled among the grass, a cow camped on the road and an owl perched on fallen timber. So taken was Anthony with his early evening adventure that on reaching the newly developed cultivation he continued on riding around its edge. The enjoyment of this night meander surprised him, especially out here on Wangallon’s distant boundary. He revved the bike and leant forward into the wind. His eyes and nose were running from the coldness, the tops of his ears numb. The ground beneath was doughy with moisture and the bike fish-tailed out a couple of times as a line of darkness deeper than the sky rose up in front of him. Anthony felt the change in temperature approaching the tree line. The southerly wind was blocked by the leafy giants and the air grew tranquil and moist. Slowing, he manoeuvred the bike through the timber, cautious of uprooted trees and gaping holes that lay to his left. He could smell the tang of leaves, the earthy heaviness of opened soil and then another scent, the cloying trace of a fox.