A Changing Land(37)
‘He is as stubborn as his father,’ Claire announced, as Angus led the horse back to where his parents waited.
Passing the reins to his father, Angus positioned himself to be helped once more. This time the gelding didn’t even allow his young rider to be seated. Hamish extended his hand and pulled his son up off the ground. ‘We’ll try in the yards tomorrow, Angus.’ The boy’s cheek was grazed and a layer of dirt and grass clung to his clothing. ‘Both hands on the reins at all times, no sudden movements, heels in. And keep those knees of yours gripped against his flanks. Lastly, make friends with him,’ Hamish instructed.
Angus patted the gelding between the ears. ‘He’s quiet enough now, Father.’
Father and son discussed the gelding’s merits standing side by side, their hands clasped behind their backs. Hamish could only imagine how the boy’s backside felt. By comparison he knew exactly his wife’s temperament, her feet managing to make an inordinately loud noise on the verandah.
‘Wetherly is dining with us on the 27th,’ he called over his shoulder. Claire halted on the doorstep, straightened her shoulders and then, lifting her skirts, walked softly indoors.
‘So then you managed to find your way back,’ Hamish said between puffs of tobacco as Luke appeared around the corner of the homestead.
Luke ran his hands across the gelding’s flanks, the horse sidestepping in response.
‘You should have been back earlier,’ Hamish continued with a studied puff of his pipe. ‘Take the horse back to the stables, Angus.’
‘Yes, Father.’ They watched Angus depart. He was limping slightly and, thinking himself out of sight, rubbed at his backside.
‘After months in the saddle I would have thought I’d earned some rest.’ Luke undid the leather saddlebag strung across his shoulder. From it he retrieved a sheath of paper marked by rain, grime and saddle grease. He passed the bill of sale to his father. ‘Besides, I’m sure Jasperson reported on my whereabouts.’
‘The cattle were obviously in fair order. They fetched a good price, although you had some losses.’ He scanned the paperwork with interest.
‘Unavoidable losses,’ Luke was not interested in giving a detailed account of the trip. His father rarely asked for one. ‘They did well. Better than I expected.’
‘You always have erred more on the conservative side, Luke.’
‘Not everyone can survive on risk alone.’ The silence between them signalled the beginning of the weeks ahead.
Hamish stroked his moustache thoughtfully. ‘How’s your shoulder?’
Luke slung the saddlebag back over his shoulder. ‘I’d keep Angus away from that Aboriginal boy. I caught them fighting.’
‘Willy is Boxer’s nephew,’ Hamish explained, ‘and if Angus gets knocked about a bit, well, he’ll just have to learn from it. As we all do. He’s eight and he’s not had the cosseting your own mother gave you.’
Rose could hardly be charged with being over protective of her children, Luke thought. His own childhood had been much like Angus’s until he’d been all but orphaned through childhood illness, accident and his mother’s death.
‘You better get yourself cleaned up. It is Christmas apparently.’
‘So I’ve been told.’ So that was it, eight months droving and their conversation limited to a handful of minutes.
‘By the way, Luke, your grandmother died recently. She never woke from her sleep.’
‘I see. And the emporium?’ An image of the George Street Emporium he’d visited recently sprang to mind. It was crowded with every conceivable object: hammers and pickaxes, through to sacks of foodstuffs, men’s clothing and material for women’s things. He’d been intrigued with a set of finely carved men: six tiny Chinamen with poles strung across their shoulders and buckets dangling from fine cord at the end. The owner of the emporium reckoned they’d been carved from ivory. But Luke hadn’t settled for that, he’d purchased the tortoiseshell hair comb instead.
His father shrugged. ‘No doubt we will receive correspondence in that regard.’
Walking around the side of the house Luke paused to take a swig from the canvas waterbag that hung from a hook under the eaves of the meat house. It was freshly washed down. Clearly there had been a kill in celebration of Christmas. Black flies buzzed incessantly as water dripped from the large wooden chopping block, a hefty tree trunk four feet wide by three feet high. Butchers knives and buckets stood washed on a low wooden table and the tampered dirt floor showed semi-dried puddles of water. Over all came the pungent scent of chloride of lime.