A Changing Land(61)
‘I’ll be wanting news of my inheritance before I go,’ Luke countered, lifting his brandy glass towards the light as if a connoisseur.
Hamish screwed his bushy eyebrows together.
‘The emporium,’ Luke reminded him. ‘I expect it to be left to me.’
Hamish laced his fingers together. ‘And what would you be wanting with that? You have Wangallon and you’re boss drover.’
‘You have Wangallon now and Angus will have it in the future. What do I get?’ He threw the contents of the glass down his throat. ‘It’s the only thing that will truly be mine.’
Hamish frowned. ‘What in God’s name do you think I’ve been doing out here for the last fifty-plus years? You will be running Wangallon after I’m dead, in trust until Angus is old enough to take over.’
‘I see,’ Luke stood. ‘It’s a fine plan, father, and probably a good offer for an elder son who’s a few years off fifty.’
‘Sit, sit. I’ve a problem with a neighbour. Crawford has stock of ours.’
‘You’re not accusing them of theft?’ Luke queried. ‘Things have been quiet for some years now. Let’s keep it that way.’
Hamish’s eyes gleamed. ‘No, no. I intend to make another offer for Crawford Corner. It’s a large tract of land with good grass coverage and a mix of mainly black to light soils.’
‘I thought we were consolidating?’
‘I thought you wanted to be a shopkeeper,’ Hamish retaliated. ‘The purchasing of the property would enable the rotation of our stock. You know well enough that overstocking is damaging our fragile soils. I’m not of a mind to be forced to decrease stocking rates and lose productivity.’
Luke cared little for neighbours, good, bad or indifferent. ‘Well, it sounds like you’ve made up your mind. You know where to find me.’
Hamish took a sip of his drink. ‘Under a tree I presume’.
Jim took a sip of his beer and cradled the glass in his hands. A fire flamed brightly beneath a long mantlepiece upon which decorative pieces were carefully arranged; two large painted eggs belonging to some type of prehistoric bird that were mounted on gold stands, a pair of vases and a fancy clock. Sarah was twiddling with the stem of her wine glass as Anthony returned with another log for the fire. He dropped it atop the burning wood, a scatter of sparks flying out.
‘Be careful of the carpet,’ Sarah reminded him, turning her attention from the wine glass to a spot on her jeans. Jim watched as she rubbed at the denim with a determined finger.
They were sitting in the drawing room. One wall held a large hand-painted Chinese fan encased in glass, which was highlighted by a single spotlight above it. Apparently the item had been purchased by Hamish’s first wife, Rose, from a travelling hawker in the late 1850s. To Jim’s thinking it should have been in a museum. It was faded in places and fly-spots dotted one side of it. Sitting his beer down on a flowery drink coaster he tried to find a more comfortable position in the plush burgundy velvet of the deep armchair. He was exhausted. Sleep had eluded him for most of the night and when he did manage to doze off he awoke to the sensation of someone standing at the end of his bed. Of course such imaginings were ridiculous, but the image of a tall barrel-chested man with the crinkled face of a raisin was not something his own subconscious had offered up before. Nor was Jim particularly used to waking at dawn to find his few belongings strewn about the bedroom. Although he was not one for believing in ghosts, Jim admitted last night may have been his first introduction. With less than steady hands he took another sip of beer. That same room was waiting for him tonight.
Jim glanced up at the eleven-foot ceilings and crystal chandelier, his sleep-deprived mind less than calm as he digested the recent news that the man sitting opposite him also owned a thirty per cent share in Wangallon. So much for their solicitor’s research; Mr Levi had said nothing of a long-time employee who’d managed to ingratiate himself with Angus Gordon.
‘So who makes the final decisions when it comes to running Wangallon?’ Jim asked when the room’s silence reached the uncomfortable threshold.
Sarah crossed and uncrossed her legs.
‘Everything is done jointly here,’ Anthony began. ‘We have weekly planning meetings with our stock manager, Matt, who you met earlier.’
An obvious frown shadowed Sarah’s face. She took a sip of white wine.
‘Right,’ Jim said slowly. Sarah was looking a touch uncomfortable. ‘So does that work?’ No one rushed to answer him. ‘I mean, you’re the Gordon, Sarah. Don’t you get the final say?’ By the expression crossing Sarah’s face he had hit on a rather delicate subject.