A Changing Land(77)



Oscar sat back in his chair and joined his fingers together in a peak. ‘I see. And this, after you have absconded with my stud master?’

‘He left willingly.’

Oscar waved his hand dismissively.

William Crawford entered his father’s office, dressed for a day outdoors. The boy was fit-looking and tanned, clearly not the bookworm Hamish expected. Indeed his handshake spoke of a determined confidence.

‘Crawford Corner is not for sale, although we are of course flattered by your offer.’

‘My boy,’ Oscar said by way of introduction, ‘refuses to be parted from the family seat.’

A surge of annoyance shot through Hamish. ‘A lawyer choosing to live up here? On a paltry selection of –’

William’s bland face stiffened. The Crawford’s have interests in more than just land.’

Hamish’s forehead creased into a row of parallel lines, each deeper than the first. He had been insulted by the finest; once by an aide to the Governor for sitting prior to the Queen’s representative at a state dinner. As Hamish reminded the gilded youth at the time, she was not his Queen and he was hungry. As for this young pup, William, well he had some learning to do. ‘And that would be the reason for the selling of 50,000 acres further west some ten years ago to repay a debt for commercial property in Sydney. Yes, I can see how important it is to have interests in more than just land.’ He flicked an imaginary fleck of dirt from his trousers.

Crawford coughed into a white handkerchief. ‘Let us have peace, gentlemen.’

‘My profession,’ William emphasised, ‘allows me a number of choices, Sir, none of which involve selling our land.’

Hamish lifted a formidable eyebrow. ‘You don’t have to justify yourself to me, William. However, if you do intend remaining on this land I would hope that you will appoint a suitable head stockman in your absence so that the property is properly managed.’ Hamish knew he had stepped beyond the boundaries of propriety. For a moment the room was quiet.

William brushed a strand of dark hair from his face. ‘I think you have explained the purpose of your visit, Mr Gordon.’

Hamish ignored the boy. ‘What do you intend to do to rectify your water situation? Diverting water from the bore drain system is illegal. And I will not tolerate the possibility of Wangallon stock dying of thirst because of it.’

William looked directly at his father. Clearly Oscar had not fully briefed his prodigal son on his recent doings.

Hamish continued. ‘Then there is the additional problem of missing stock.’

William’s mouth gaped.

Oscar stood, pushing his chair back with such force that it toppled over, striking a small table. Littered with black and white photographs in gilt-edged frames, all fell to the red carpeted floor.

‘How dare you, Hamish Gordon! You, who built your holding on deceit and stock theft, come here and have the audacity to accuse me of, of … you Scottish upstart. It is an embarrassment to be of acquaintance to you.’

‘I expect reparations for the damage you have done me, Sir. The water has already been diverted back to Wangallon, at my own cost. However, you will be in receipt of an account for the cattle I am missing. Some fifty head, I believe.

‘I’m warning you, Gordon …’

Hamish turned to Oscar’s son. ‘William, I wish you luck in your endeavours.’

‘You damn upstart,’ Oscar yelled. ‘We should have starved you all out of the Highlands when we had the chance.’

It took only the few ill-judged words of an Englishman to send Hamish spiralling back towards the edge of the loch. Winter was coming. The scent of herbage, the season’s last before winter assaulted his nostrils as he looked across at the mounds of stone on the edge of the water. His brothers and sisters lay cradled in the cold clay and rock of his homeland. Beyond him in their one-room hut lay his beloved mother, dead. His family had slaved for the English, died for the English.

Hamish flew from his seat, drew his hardened fist and struck Oscar Crawford in the cheek. There was a crunch, the bruising jar of skin, bone and gristle. The strength of the punch sent the older man tumbling to the ground where he struggled like a floundering yellow-belly, gasping for air. There was a startled gasp from the son. Hamish turned on him at once, readying his fist. Unexpectedly the youth cowered. ‘See what you have bred?’ Hamish glowered at father and son before exiting the office. Barely halting in his stride, he barged past the returning servant, knocking the salver from his hands. Jasperson followed, sidestepping the spilt tea and smashed crockery.

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