A Changing Land(95)
Luke held out his hand and then let it slowly drop. ‘Tell me this, if not for my father –’
‘If not for your father,’ Claire found herself barely able to draw breath, ‘if not for your father, neither of us would be standing here today.’ She placed her shaking palm against her stomach. ‘Heavens, Luke, what have we done?’
He watched her collapse into one of the wicker chairs, her slim form heaving as tears consumed her. He waited some minutes, unable to decide as to the best course of action. The boundary between them that had been broken would never be crossed again, for he could not stand to see such pain on Claire’s face. Luke looked out towards the garden at the gravel road that led him to and away from this woman whom he had loved since his teenage years. He could not have her, perhaps now he did not want her. For like his own father, Claire burdened him with pain and he was angry for it.
‘My mother was still very much alive when my father decided to become your secret benefactor. I often wonder what he would have done if Rose had not died prematurely.’
Claire looked up from where she sobbed quietly, smoothed the folds of her skirt and wiped carefully at her eyes. ‘What?’ They both knew the words did not have to be repeated. The insinuation was clear.
‘It’s my penance to care for the woman who supplanted my mother.’
With shaking hands Claire removed the tortoiseshell comb from her hair and sat it on the wicker table. If her imaginings had remained just that, she could have gone on. She could have swallowed her pride and somehow set out along the new path Hamish had defined for her. However, she had gone against the natural order of things and in doing so realised that there could be another love beyond husband and wife, beyond right and wrong. Claire straightened her shoulders and walked indoors. The structure of her life was crumbling and she had not the materials to rebuild it.
Luke retrieved his grandmother’s letter from where it had fluttered to the scratched floorboards. He folded it carefully, his fingers patiently creasing it into a diminishing square. Finally he shoved it securely into the pocket of his moleskins. He looked out at the trees shimmering in the haze, at the pale lifeless grass swaying meditatively, and experienced the sharp bite of anger that only frustration could create. Removing a plug of tobacco from his pocket, he plied the wad into the semblance of a cigarette, used his thumbs to roll it into a slip of paper and lit it with a flinty match, drawing back heavily. Luke wanted to hit something, hit it so hard that it smashed into a million pieces. The cigarette flared and then calmed itself into a thin stream of smoke. Beside him on the table sat the tortoiseshell comb, his monument to stupidity. He touched the fine prongs, lifted it to his nose and sniffed at the scent of her. Then he let it fall from his fingers to clatter on the wooden boards. Margaret appeared soundlessly and began to gather the discarded newspaper and mail. She looked apologetically at Luke. ‘Mr Gordon wants the mail.’ ‘My father’s here?’ Luke asked, his eyes flicking towards the study window.
Margaret saw the comb lying on the floorboards, picked it up and held it out to him.
‘Mrs Gordon does not want it anymore.’ Luke folded her fingers over it. ‘Take it.’ The girl bit her bottom lip. ‘Take it,’ he said harshly.
Margaret held the comb close to her chest. ‘Thank you, Luke.’
He was reminded of soft rain as she padded, barefooted, away from him, the mail under one arm, the comb clutched to her chest.
The Dash 8 aircraft flew low across the countryside. Sarah studied the landscape as they crossed kilometres of green crops, areas being tilled by large tractors pulling wide machinery, and hundreds of cattle and sheep. There were also open bore drains crisscrossing the country, feeding water across the land, dams and tree-shaded waterways. She pressed her head against the window, mesmerised by a mob of kangaroos bounding off into the bush as they approached the airstrip. The animals left a trail of dust that puffed up into balls of dirt. They skirted past trees, reached a fence line and halted in their progress just long enough to squeeze beneath the wires, then they zigzagged across a paddock before finally disappearing from sight into a clump of trees.
Leaning back in her seat, Sarah squeezed her eyes tightly shut and pictured Wangallon; imagined circling above the sprawling homestead with its large garden. There was the vegetable plot, the remains of the property’s ancient orchard and a number of outbuildings, large machinery and worksheds, the jackeroo’s cottage. Further away sat the stables with their original bark and timber interior walls and adjoining horse yards. When she opened her eyes again the plane had landed.