A Changing Land(54)
Jim paled. ‘No.’
Sarah thought of her mother’s indifference during her childhood. Jim’s existence was only part of the cause for it. Sue Gordon had also taken a lover and after his accidental death, she doted on their love child, Cameron. If Jim was intent on recriminations, he could have a lesson in blame apportioning. She could ill afford to feel sorry for him. ‘I’ll leave sandwiches in the fridge for you.’ That was the best she could offer. She certainly wasn’t going to do his cooking. ‘There’s space in the wardrobe if you need to hang anything and if you need water, use the brass tap in the kitchen. It’s rainwater. The rest of the house is running on dam water at the moment. We haven’t had rain for a while.’
Sarah shut the bedroom door and looked across the hallway. Diagonally opposite were two bedroom doors – one once belonged to her great-grandfather, the other to his first wife, Rose. She opened Rose’s door tentatively. Inside was a washstand with a matching ceramic bowl and water jug, an old wardrobe, dresser and a bed. The yellow curtains were drawn closed and the room smelled musty. Sarah sprayed some lavender scent about the room. It was a custom her grandfather had taken to and now the lavender scent in its plastic bottle was a permanent fixture on the dresser. Some months ago she’d found herself walking straight up the main hallway, only to detour into Rose’s room. Now the airing and scenting of the room formed a part of her weekly routine. Sarah smoothed the creased pale pink bedspread and left the door slightly ajar to air.
Next door was her great-grandfather’s room. Sarah’s fingers hovered over the doorknob, before clutching at the tarnished brass to turn it. Nothing happened. She turned it again but the door wouldn’t budge. Strange. Intrigued enough to consider placing her shoulder against the aged cedar and giving it a good hard shove, she reconsidered. Only once had she stepped across the threshold into Hamish’s room and even then her grandfather had led the way. Sarah recalled an almost overwhelming male scent and glimpses of dark furniture, fluttering curtains and a yellowing photograph hanging crookedly on the wall. Angus had tutted in annoyance before steering Sarah out of the room.
Hamish achieved almost folklore proportions when Sarah was little. To her it seemed that the strength of his person had permeated every atom of Wangallon. The position of every building, yard and fence division had been planned by him, and his pain staking plans and details of the management of the property were all carefully recorded in copious leather-bound ledgers. Angus had packed them away for safe-keeping in an old tin trunk. One day, Sarah promised herself, she would read them. Taking a step back, she glanced from her great-grandfather’s room across the hallway to where Jim was. She needed a plan. Any plan. She wondered what Angus would do.
Hamish and Angus walked through the yard of rams. An easterly kept the sheep-refined dirt flying. It sneaked into crevices, swirling into the whorls of ears so that it took a persistent finger to clean out the sweat-moistened gluck. Angus breathed hot air through the handkerchief tied about his nose and mouth and glared defiantly at every ram turning towards him in interest. Having been knocked over last year, he knew the pain of a broken rib. At the gate, he stamped his foot in reply to a ram’s cloven-hoofed annoyance and was relieved when they finally approached the drafting race.
A row of peppercorn trees overhung the race, providing some shade, and beneath the largest tree on a rotted stump sat Boxer, sweat running down his face. Boxer swiped his arm across his mouth, took a swig of water from the canvas bag hanging off a branch above him and greeted Hamish with a broken-toothed excuse for a smile. Wetherly jumped the race easily and met Hamish halfway across the yard. Another Aboriginal stockman, Harry and the Scottish boy, McKenzie, waited nearby. Andrew Duff barely tipped his hat.
Hamish studied the rams pushed tight in the narrow race. The vibe from the men was strained. It was to be expected with the recent changes, however he wouldn’t tolerate any attitude – no one was indispensable.
‘An ordinary day for classing,’ Wetherly noted.
Hamish ignored him. ‘No need for you to be here, Boxer,’ he said kindly.
Boxer looked around the yard. ‘Long time dead, Boss, and mebbe you still need old fella.’
Hamish nodded. ‘Maybe.’
‘I’ve always been a firm believer in keeping sheep out of the yards on days such as this,’ Wetherly persevered. ‘It does a fleece no good to be subjected to such dusty conditions.’
‘Then you won’t find it a problem ensuring the rams are taken back to their paddock as soon as possible,’ Hamish answered curtly. Already the big animals panted and snorted, their curly horned heads catching on their neighbours or becoming wedged over the top of the wooden rails of the race. Hamish walked to the lead.