A Changing Land(44)
Lee, appearing to ignore the remarks, began to empty the contents of the two buckets. There were two glass jars, one of preserved lemons, the other oranges, two small cabbages, some potatoes, carrots, onions, two plucked quails and an assortment of wilted-looking herbs. Lee separated the clutch of herbs, dirt spilling out from the furry roots onto both table and floor. He pushed the quails and a bunch each of sage and parsley towards Mrs Stackland. ‘Put inside,’ he stated, waving a scrawny finger from the herbs to the quail.
‘We’re having pie,’ Mrs Stackland answered as she meticulously sorted through the fare as if she were selecting goods from a street vendor in George Street, Sydney.
‘Put inside,’ Lee repeated, the long nail on his pinkie finger extended at the birds.
‘Thank you for the lemons,’ Mrs Stackland said brusquely. ‘They will do nicely for my custard.’
‘Put inside.’ Lee smiled, forcing his cheeks into circles of puffy flesh.
Luke slurped down his scalding tea as their argument continued over the herbs and then moved on to the caterpillar-chewed cabbages. He watched Margaret select two cut lengths of timber from the wood box and place them smartly into the slow combustion stove. Her dark hair was tied back into a thick bun on the nape of her neck and she was a slim, lithe little thing.
‘After lunch I want you two girls to busy yourselves beating out the dirty carpets, then sweep the hall and change the linen on young Master Angus’s bed,’ Mrs Stackland ordered in between her arguing. ‘And don’t be forgetting the cleaning of the silver and Margaret the copper will have to be fired up for the washing and Martha do clean the flat-iron …’
‘Oh, Mrs Stackland, are you there?’
Claire’s clear, light voice carried sweetly towards the kitchen. Luke glanced at the doorway and thought of the nine months since he’d last seen Claire Whittaker Gordon. All of a sudden he needed air and space. He slipped silently out the back door.
‘Mrs Stackland tells me you prefer the company of our staff, Luke.’
Luke heard the rustle of her skirts. It was a sound from his earliest memories of the girl who would eventually marry his father. He left the upturned bucket where he had been enjoying a quiet smoke and stubbed the thin roll-your-own out with the heel of his boot, purposely busying himself with the action. ‘I never was one for airs and graces,’ he answered flatly, keeping his broad back to Claire. Now she was near him again after so many months, he wished her gone.
‘Where have you been? Your father tells me you arrived yesterday.’
‘Busy.’ He’d never quite seen the point of all the civilising his father enjoyed and his years droving had bred into him a preference for quiet meals with little talk. ‘Are you enjoying your Christmas, Auntie Claire?’ He did not mean for the words to come out so tightly and he cursed himself inwardly. He turned towards her, steeling himself lest any outward sign of his thoughts should be revealed. She was dressed all in white. The material draped gently over her bust and was inlaid with lace and net chiffon. On her head she wore a large hat with a curved brim. She was a study in decadence for a woman who lived on a remote station. ‘I remember you sitting in the schoolroom with that fancy tutor from Sydney,’ Luke said, ‘learning all those languages and me with my readers in the corner.’
There were fine wisps of grey fanning out from her forehead now and the line of her proud jaw was softening. ‘I never thought you would stay, you know,’ he continued. The high-spirited teenager with the lustrous black hair and winning smile always appeared so ill-suited to both Wangallon and Hamish Gordon.
Claire gave a small confused frown. ‘I never considered leaving.’ She removed a finely embroidered lawn handkerchief from the sleeve of her bodice and dabbed at her neck above the high-topped blouse. ‘You will join us for Christmas lunch, Luke. Your father would be so pleased.’
‘He has you and Angus,’ he smiled wryly, ‘and Jasperson for that matter. There’s no one else coming to be needing me for appearances’ sake.’ Last year he had argued with Jasperson and he would not on his life ruin another Christmas for Claire. He found the man’s company abominable. Luke thought of the men and women who had crossed his path during his life to date. There was always some imperceptible sign that gave their true nature away. An undeserved remark, a lie for self-gain, or the physical reactions of the human body, such as the careless whore in Wangallon Town who, having overestimated her importance, had frowned at the extra coin he’d been prepared to give her. Apart from the man’s predilection for young boys, the other hated truth of Jasperson was his meanness of spirit. Luke’s fingers touched the tortoiseshell hair comb in his trouser pocket.