A Changing Land(8)


Sarah flung open the double doors of her bedroom and breathed in dawn’s chill. The air caught at her throat and lungs, pinching at her cheeks. Young Jack Dillard, their jackeroo of twelve months, had taken particular care in fertilising the lawn during spring and summer, the result obvious in the prolonged green tinge carpeting the expanse of garden around the homestead. Within a week, however, the lawn like the rest of Wangallon’s garden would begin to shut down for winter. Sarah grinned happily as she scraped her hair from her face, twisting it nonchal antly before securing it with an elasticised band. Every season on Wangallon was filled with wonder. The crisp breath of frosty mornings, birds ruffling feathers to warm themselves and bush creatures foraging amid sleeping trees were just as welcome to her as the new shoots of spring.

Rubbing sleep from her eyes, Sarah waited until a glimmer of the new day appeared in the east. Rays of red-tinged light infused trees, grass and geranium-filled pots until finally the ancient bougainvillea hedge with its straggly trails of flat green leaves and desert bright flowers of pink and red were saturated with light. Pink in the morning, Sarah thought, shepherd take warning. Her grandfather would have predicted a shower of rain within three days at the sight of this morning’s sky. Let’s hope so, she murmured, for this morning they would begin to discuss their winter feeding plans. Selecting a rusty brown sweater from the cedar wardrobe, she slipped it on.

‘Morning,’ Anthony said groggily.

Sarah’s eyebrow lifted in amused accusation. Shelley and Anthony had gone for the pass the port routine after dinner last night. Sarah, never having liked any type of fortified wine, stuck with her preferred poison, a soft merlot, and consequently was feeling pretty healthy. ‘Choice of beverage not agree with you, honey?’ Sarah covered the few short steps to the side of the bed and planted a kiss on Anthony’s sun-brown cheek. He struggled up from beneath the warmth of the bedclothes, his arms folding quickly across his bare chest.

‘What’s with the blast of cold air?’ He frowned, glancing at the alarm clock.

‘What’s with the sleep-in?’ she countered, softly nuzzling his neck.

Anthony squinted against the morning glare, focusing on the antiquated dresser belonging to Sarah’s great-grandfather, Hamish. It was an ugly old thing made out of packing cases with large cut-off cotton reels for handles. He’d never liked it. ‘We need a blind on that verandah.’ He tweaked Sarah’s nose playfully before trapping her in a great bear hug. ‘Better still, let’s move into Angus’s room. It is bigger, plus it has an ensuite.’

Sarah, recalling last night’s intimacies, found her thoughts quickly grounded. ‘We’ll survive.’

He buried his face in her neck. ‘You smell of sandalwood. You always have.’ He held her, his strong hands clasping her shoulders, his fingers lifting to trace her cheek. Knowing how easy it was to succumb, Sarah placed her palm against the warmth of his chest and then ruffled the rusty brown sheen of his hair. Their usual weekly meeting was due to start in half an hour. Anthony, as if reading her mind, glanced at the alarm clock.

‘No,’ she said strongly.

‘Hey.’ Anthony picked up her ruby engagement ring, twiddling it between his fingers. ‘It’s about time this ring had a gold band to sit beside it.’

Taking the ring, Sarah sat it back on the bedside table. His grandmother’s ring and two hundred thousand dollars represented Anthony’s share of his family’s property and she knew he deserved every penny. ‘Come on, it’s a work day.’





Padding down the hallway in her socks, Sarah glanced into her grandfather’s empty bedroom. On impulse she entered, drawing the heavy burgundy curtains aside. Instantly a rush of light leapt into the room. Crystal ornaments and a silver-backed hairbrush sitting on the mahogany dressing table caught the light, refracting myriad dancing squares across the still life of hydrangeas hanging above the king-sized bed. On the hardwood bedside table a picture of her grandfather with his half-brother, Luke, caught her eye. The yellowing image showed her great uncle on horseback. Her grandfather, far younger in age, stood beside him with a rifle and a brace of ducks over his shoulder.

Next door Anthony could be heard moving about their bedroom. Cupboards closed noisily, drawers stiff with age creaked on opening. Anthony’s own belongings, including a number of antique items left to him by his grandmother, were still sheet-covered in one of Wangallon’s many spare rooms. At some stage she would need to find homes for them, although with the house already stuffed with Gordon furniture, each piece a tangible link to their history, she was at a loss to know where they’d go.

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