A Changing Land(17)
‘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.