A Changing Land(56)
Hamish reread a copy of the letter he’d made from the original, mailed some weeks prior.
Dear Mr Shaw-Michaels,
I was deeply saddened to learn of the passing of Lorna Sutton. In regards to her last will and testament I would direct that the 3,000 pounds bequeathed to my eldest son, Luke Gordon, be willed instead to Mrs Elizabeth Sutton Russell. These instructions are made on the strict understanding that on no account will my name be brought to Mrs Russell’s attention and that to all intents and purposes Mrs Russell was the original and single beneficiary of Lorna Sutton’s will. I make these instructions conditional on your firm’s continued association with Mrs Russell now and into the future and declare to have no interest now or in the future in Lorna Sutton’s will. You will be recompensed accordingly for your services, Sir.
Yours sincerely
John Shaw-Michaels had been Hamish’s solicitor for many years and was intimately involved with the particular machinations that built Wangallon. Folding the letters, Hamish unlocked the tin chest in his study and deposited the paperwork carefully inside. If Luke were to receive the measly 3,000 pounds willed to him and not the emporium, he would discover the majority of the estate had been verbally gifted to someone else nearly three years ago. Rose’s death had closed a door on that part of his life and ensured an impenetrable succession plan. Hamish thought only momentarily of Luke. His eldest was bound to Wangallon and the future, not a past that could dislodge the natural order of things.
Anthony sat the chequebook on the bonnet of his Landcruiser and wrote the figure down carefully. Even though he was convinced his actions were correct, it was a lot to part with, especially when he was taking full responsibility for the project. Tearing the cheque free he passed it to the contractor. They had worked twelve-hour shifts to get the new cultivation ready for planting. All they needed was a good fall of rain. Three inches minimum was required to plant a summer crop. Anthony had already discussed the specifics with an agronomist and although he’d advised to wait until next year, he was determined to plant 1000 acres to grain sorghum and fallow the remaining cultivation until next year. By then Anthony hoped to have more acreage cleared and be ready to plant wheat. He looked at the landscape around him. It was the same over most of Wangallon. The little grass that was left was brittle. What the lack of rainfall started, the cold of winter finished. He needed good rain to plant.
‘Thanks, mate,’ Colin Harris grinned as his grease-smeared hands imprinted themselves with an inky stain of ownership on the pale blue paper. ‘When do you reckon you’ll want us back?’
Anthony looked across the freshly cultivated grassland in the direction of where the two bulldozers were working: stage two of his project. Once the trees were knocked down, they then had to be raked into piles and burnt. ‘It’ll be at least a month before we have a block squared off and ready for ploughing. I’ll give you a call in a few weeks and let you know how we’re travelling.’
‘Sounds good. And everything’s okay now?’
Anthony knew Colin was referring to Sarah’s instructions for all work on Boxer’s to stop. ‘Yep, fine. As I said, unless you hear direct from me, Colin, everything goes ahead as planned.’
As the contractors packed up their gear, Anthony drove around the edge of the new cultivation. The offset discs had dug deep into the ground, bringing up buried logs, old branches and sticks. These would have to be picked up by hand, placed into piles and burnt before a sowing rig was brought onto the cultivation. It was another costly job and one that would need a team of good stick-pickers.
At the opposite end of the new cultivation two dozers crawled slowly through the scrub. A clump of old belah trees was left standing nearest him and such groupings were scattered over stage one of the development. There were other spots on this initial 5,000 acres that he’d personally marked out to be left undisturbed. It was pointless clearing ridgy country, for the soil was too hard-packed to be any good for cropping; and it was important to leave scattered stands of trees, both for the wildlife and livestock. He was also conscious of the need to ensure the continuation of as much of the natural habitat as possible, having been reared on the yet unproven theory that trees attracted rain. To that extent belts of trees would be left where possible across the entirety of Boxer’s Plains.
From the esky on the passenger seat, Anthony pulled a mutton and tomato sauce sandwich free of its plastic wrap. Since his argument with Sarah in the garden, his vehicle had become both his office and sometime home. He bit hungrily into the doughy bread, pouring black tea from his thermos. A 5 a.m. start borne of a desire not to face Sarah made for a long day, especially when he was waiting for dark before returning. Well, he had his wish. The sky was striped with the colour of cold steel, the paddock darkening as if a blanket had been thrown over the landscape. He finished his sandwich.