A Changing Land(22)
At various stages during the year the vegetable garden boasted rows of neatly planted cabbages, tomatoes, pumpkin, carrots and cucumber. Not particularly adventurous fare, but easy enough to grow, at least. Parsley, mint and rosemary completed the herb section. It was not that Sarah didn’t care for the garden, indeed pottering around the moist beds amid the wavering trees was amazingly therapeutic; it was simply that she loved what grew beyond the back gate more. Out there was the rich soil that ensured their survival. Out there was the land that her people had lived and died for.
Clearing away images of a pigtailed man digging up the Wangallon soil, Sarah returned to the remaining unopened mail. There was the monthly fuel account, the molasses statement for the supplement they fed to the cows prior to the spring calving and the usual junk mail. Throwing the flyers for the supermarket cut-price specials and furniture store deals in the wastepaper bin, she jumped when the telephone rang.
‘Sarah, it’s Dad. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.’
She waited for the tremble in his voice to subside. There were only two things he could be calling about.
‘It’s your mother.’
Relief flooded through her, quickly followed by guilt.
‘She’s declined a bit over the last day.’
Sarah wondered if she should jump in the car and begin the long drive north. ‘I’m sorry, Dad. Is it bad?’
‘Well, the doctor can’t give me any specifics. How about I let you know if there’s any change.’ The cheery tone in her father’s voice sounded forced.
‘Okay. And you’re all right?’
‘I’m fine.’
Sarah turned their conversation to the weather and the opening of the silage pit. She was concerned for her father, however this wasn’t the first telephone call over the last couple of years heralding her mother’s increasing ill health.
‘Hey, honey.’ Anthony strode into the office, his jeans bloody. ‘Can you find me a syringe? One of the cows aborted and she’s prolapsed. I need to give her a shot of penicillin.’
‘Gotta go, Dad. I’ll speak to you later.’ She hung up the phone and selected a syringe and a sixteen gauge needle from the stainless steel cupboard. ‘The penicillin is in the cool room. I’ll go –’
‘No need.’ Anthony took the syringe and needle from her hand. ‘I’ll get it on the way out.’
‘I’ll come.’ Sarah walked from the office to the back porch where her riding boots were. She’d had enough of being indoors and figured being outside might give them both some perspective; especially when it came to discussing the purchases she’d not been told about.
He turned to her, kissed her forehead. ‘There’s no need. I can handle it.’
‘But I want to come.’
He took her by the shoulders. ‘It’s messy, Sarah. You don’t really want to see it.’
For a moment Sarah stared after his retreating figure. He made her feel ill-equipped to handle something that she had viewed on more than one occasion. ‘Anthony? Wait.’ By the time Sarah pulled her boots on and ran down the back path, the Landcruiser was driving away. As she turned back towards the homestead, Bullet sat squarely in the middle of the back path, his head tilted to one side. A few feet away Ferret sat uncomfortably beneath the above ground rainwater tank, his pipe-encased leg thrust out awkwardly to one side.
‘How are you going, Ferret?’
The dog gave a whine. Bullet nudged her leg as she squatted beside him. The rain had eased and a cold southerly stung her eyes. Sarah snuggled up against Bullet. Despite the best of intentions, her thoughts turned from cattle ramps, trucks and Anthony to her mother.
‘Morning.’ Jasperson dismounted stiffly from his horse before wrapping the reins around the hitching post that ran parallel to the verandah. By his side was the lad known as McKenzie. Hamish ignored Jasperson’s newest recruit. Having plucked the boy from obscurity, the lad’s length of tenure at Wangallon depended on his ability. Jasperson looked peaky. In hindsight, Hamish recalled, not much different to the day over fifty years ago when they had come upon him camped alone on the banks of the swollen Broken River. There had only been the three of them after Hamish’s brother’s death: Hamish, Lee and Dave. They had buried Charlie on the goldfields, headed north and found Jasperson. Jasperson, an uptight Englishman with a penchant for young boys, had given some cockeyed story about having lost everything and everyone. Yet Hamish saw in him the same attributes as Dave; they were men who could follow orders and keep their mouths shut and men like that were damn hard to find and replace. It was a pity Dave finally succumbed to his own mortality. Hamish had thought his willpower was stronger than that.