A Changing Land(4)
Sarah sat back squarely on the quad seat. So much for the welcome.
‘I was worried. What’s with all these long rides around the property?’
‘It’s his birthday.’
‘Oh.’ Each passing year Cameron faded a little more from Anthony’s memory. He gave what he hoped was an understanding nod. ‘Been fencing?’ he nodded towards the milk crate. ‘You don’t have to do that stuff you know, Sarah.’
If she expected a few words of comfort, Anthony was not the person to rely on. He rarely delved past the necessary. She gave a weak smile. ‘I am capable of fixing a few wires.’
‘I don’t want you to hurt yourself,’ Anthony replied with a slight hint of annoyance. ‘And what’s with taking off and not letting me know where you’re going or how long you’ll be away?’
‘Sorry.’
He scratched his forehead, the action tipping his akubra onto the back of his head. ‘Well, no harm done. Let’s go back to the house and have a coffee.’
‘Would that be a flat white? Latte? Espresso?’
Anthony rolled his eyes. ‘How about Nescafé?’
Bullet barked loudly. ‘Sounds good.’ Sarah pushed her hat down on her head and sped off down the dirt road with Bullet’s back squarely against hers. She slowed when they passed some Hereford cows grazing close to the road. ‘G’day girls,’ she called above the bike’s engine. Bullet whimpered over her shoulder and gave a single bark as they crossed one of the many bore drains feeding their land with water. These open channels provided a maze of life for Wangallon’s stock and Sarah never failed to wonder at the effort gone into their construction nearly a century ago under the watchful command of her great-grandfather Hamish. Shifting up a gear, she raced through the homestead paddock gate to speed past the massive iron workshed and the machinery shed with its four quad-runners, three motorbikes, Landcruisers and mobile mechanic’s truck. Weaving through the remaining trees of their ancient orchard, Sarah braked in a spurt of dirt outside Wangallon Homestead. She smiled, watching as Bullet walked through the open back gate, pausing to look over his shoulder at her.
‘I’m coming.’
Bullet spiked his ears, lifted his tail and walked on ahead.
Hamish Gordon, immaculate in a dark suit, matching waistcoat and necktie, walked his black stallion along the edge of the empty bore drain. He was travelling westward across country that he’d begun to amass nearly fifty years ago and the sight of the black soil radiating from beneath him eased the ache in his lower back. Tree-filtered light dappled the track ahead and splatters of dew danced on fine spider netting nestled between tufts of grass. A breeze parted the glistening leaves of the trees, the noise like the soft shaking of linen, and he felt the breath of life on his face.
Hamish kept the reins taut on the stallion as he surveyed his land. Having once doubted if it were humanly possible for Wangallon to ever mean more to him, this year proved otherwise. His son Angus was now eight and, having fought off the various ills of childhood, Hamish was convinced that at last he had a worthy successor. When the time came, and he supposed it must, although he would fight death like every other foe, Angus would take his father’s place. There was still much for the boy to learn and although Angus retained a child’s capacity for foolishness, Hamish knew anything and anyone could be moulded.
The stallion started at something in the grass. The animal, a flighty newcomer to Wangallon’s stable, backed up at the slightest movement and was yet to take a liking to both bridle and bit. Hamish was determined to teach the horse a measure of respect, for he intended gifting the animal to Angus at Christmas and expected the stallion to display all the attributes of a highly domesticated animal. If he didn’t he’d be gelded. The horse wound its way steadily through the thick stand of ironbark trees. Hamish noticed the lack of grass growing in the densely timbered area and decided at once to have them felled. They could use the timber for a planned dividing fence while simultaneously increasing the stock-carrying capacity with the increase in grass coverage.
‘We’ll use this timber for the fence,’ called Hamish over his shoulder to Boxer, Wangallon’s head stockman.
Boxer rode with his rifle resting across his doeskin thighs, the edge of his pale coat flapping against the chestnut mare’s back. ‘Righto, Boss.’ Spitting out a well-chewed wad of tobacco, he ran his tongue around his mouth, the pink tip of it flicking unsuccessfully at the dark juices dripping down his chin.