A Changing Land (24 page)

The toe of Anthony's boot struck the gear upwards and he accelerated. The Yamaha motorbike sped along the dirt road. Each bump and pothole on the road jarred his body and sent unwelcome slivers of pain through his right hand. Two of his fingers were strapped. Anthony's only regret was that he had not hit Jim Macken harder. He revved the motorbike, swallowing the throb of his hand, wishing the Scot had given him the opportunity of throwing two punches instead of one. At the old army bridge spanning the waters of the Wangallon River, he stopped. Beneath him, a muddy swirl moved downstream. There were waterbirds stalking the furthest bank, a lone wallaby and a number of kangaroos having an early morning drink. Anthony pulled the zipper up further on his oilskin and stretched his leather-and-wool encased fingers. The morning was colder than it had looked from Wangallon's kitchen window.

Restarting the bike he continued on across the bridge and into Boxer's Plains. With two sleepless nights behind him, he'd spent
much of the time trying to decipher how things had become so skewed. His reasoning regarding the development was sound and the inevitability of Jim's inheritance made his project one hundred per cent correct. Why then was Sarah so damn determined to stop something Wangallon needed? Stubbornness ran in the Gordon family, of that he'd had firsthand experience, and it was true Wangallon had always been predominantly grazing, but the bush was changing and Wangallon needed to move with the times as well.

He knew his girl didn't like change and in truth, considering the past, he couldn't blame her. But this was different. They were both trying to protect Wangallon, yet Sarah was acting as if he was the enemy. Somehow everything seemed mightily screwed up. The motorbike startled a mob of kangaroos nibbling near the edge of the cultivation. Immediately the animals turned briefly towards the oncoming noise, then they were off, their muscled hind legs powering them forward, leaving small puffs of dust as they hopped quickly into the safety of some wilga trees. Anthony rode around the edge of the cultivation to where the contractors had been working. He followed their metal track marks in the soft dirt, careful not to land in one of the gaping holes where a tree once stood. Scattered branches and large limbs, the debris from fallen timber, lay strewn in every direction and Anthony found it difficult to pick a path through the tangle of branches. More than once he found himself backing up his bike in order to find a clearer passage. The area was heavily timbered and with new tree growth over the last few years, it was virtually impossible to muster stock out. Anthony doubted if many people had ventured this far into the ridge for years. Angus had fenced off a square of about sixty acres right in the middle of the ridge in the late twenties. It was a smart solution for it stopped stock from hiding within the timbered environs, although Anthony was at a loss as to why he'd simply not had the timber thinned out a little.

The bulldozers were clearing on a face of about five hundred metres. Eventually Anthony reached their start point and rode around the man-made boundary. It struck him how easily a landscape could change. On his right, trees swallowed the countryside while to his left timber lay on the ground like fallen soldiers. Eventually a glint of metal caught his eye and soon the unmistakeable shape of heavy machinery came into view. The two dozer drivers were sitting in the middle of their handiwork in deckchairs.

Anthony got off his bike and tucked his hands into the pockets of his jacket. It was damn cold, but these two blokes were wearing short-sleeved shirts and shorts. ‘G'day. Working on your cruise tan, Bruce?'

‘Almost summery today,' commented Bruce, the older of the two men, unscrewing the lid on his thermos. ‘Cuppa?'

‘Sounds good.' Anthony squatted in the dirt as the black tea was poured. Soon he was warming his hands around the lid of the thermos.

‘Five weeks till spring,' agreed Neville, Bruce's companion, passing Anthony a milk arrowroot biscuit spread with butter and vegemite.

Bruce took a slurp of tea and licked the topping off his biscuit. ‘Saw that head stockman of yours this morning.'

Neville poured more tea for himself and spread his legs straight in front of him in order to pick up more of the sun's weak rays. ‘Don't like him.'

Anthony took a sip of his tea. He could have stood a teaspoon up in it, it was that strong.

‘Yeah, Mrs Kelly wouldn't have let Ned play with him,' Neville stated solemnly.

‘He's not that much of a poor bastard,' Bruce replied.

Neville shook his head. ‘Met him up at Carlyon's place before his accident. Wasn't too bad then.'

‘And now?' Anthony asked, intrigued.

‘Delusions of grandeur.'

Bruce poured more tea. ‘Well, I don't mind the poor bastard. He's got a busted sandshoe for a face and fingers that are no good to any woman.'

‘He's capable,' Anthony admitted, draining his tea. ‘And permanent.' He passed Bruce the thermos lid. The three of them finished up and Bruce packed up his esky, tying a narrow cotton rope around it to keep the broken lid on. ‘Got the ear of your girl, eh? You'll have to put a stop to that. 'Bout time you two married and had a couple of sprogs. That will keep her busy.'

Neville grinned, displaying a gold front tooth. ‘Ahh, anklebiters. Would have lost an eye for me own little fellas. Course then they grow up and become right little arseholes and you can't give the buggers away.'

Anthony blinked. ‘Look fellas, I need to stop the work here for a few days.' It was a tough thing to be pushed into an uncomfortable decision, but if the development was going to cause such a major problem between them, especially with everything else going on, then he would do as Sarah asked – at least for the moment. One of them would have to take a step back before they did further damage to their relationship. Once she returned home he'd talk her around.

Bruce rolled his eyes. ‘Again?'

‘Yeah, the fuel truck's been delayed,' he lied. ‘It's got me buggered, but we're all out of diesel. And they're not promising a delivery this week.'

‘Fair enough.' Bruce heaved his burly frame out of the deck-chair. ‘We'll go through to knock-off time. Give us a call when you want us back on board. I was hankering for a steak and chips at the Wangallon pub tonight anyway.'

‘No probs. Thanks, mate.' Anthony shook Bruce's hand, wincing at the vice-like grip.

‘Got yourself a bit of a fencing job,' thumbed Neville over his shoulder. ‘Hit a wire back a bit. Old fence?'

‘Yeah, it's pretty old. We might use that as a bit of a marker and clear up to that. Later on I might thin it out a bit.'

‘No worries. Up to the fencing relic it is,' Neville confirmed with an excuse for a cough and a string of spittle that landed to sit foaming in the dirt.

Bullet was waiting at the back steps when Anthony arrived home. Surprisingly the dog actually stayed still long enough for a brief pat on the head. Ferret gave a melancholy whine.

‘Missing her, aren't you, mate?' Anthony commented, scraping his boots off at the back steps.

As if on cue Bullet looked down the back path. Satisfied that his mistress was not following, he ambled back to the rainwater tank and lay down beside Ferret, a half-chewed boot between them.

‘I'll tell her you want her home.'

Bullet answered with a snappish bark.

Inside Anthony washed his hands, wondering if Sarah would be back at the serviced apartment where she was staying. He was half-inclined to jump on the next plane to Sydney. He hadn't been to the big smoke for a while and there was nothing like a motel room for rekindling a love affair. He didn't need to agree with her decision to fight Jim Macken, but he guessed a little support might make Sarah more amenable towards the land development. In the office he checked dates in the station diary, noting down flight times from the faxed listing the airline circulated every year. He was about to contact the travel agent when the telephone rang.

‘Hey, I was just thinking about you. Must be ESP. How's everything going?'

‘Okay,' Sarah said with little enthusiasm. ‘Looks like I might owe you an apology. Frank reckons we probably will have to sell.'

Anthony knew it was a bitter blow for her. ‘I'm sorry. So you're coming home?'

Sarah sighed. ‘No. I need to see Dad. Tell him about everything.'

‘Oh.' So much for the trip to Sydney. Anthony flipped the diary closed. ‘Good. I don't see any benefit in keeping him out of the loop when he caused the problem.'

‘That's a bit blunt, isn't it?'

Her voice was tight. Anthony knew he was doing the right thing by deciding to halt the development in the short term. If only she knew how dogmatic she was acting and how oversensitive she sounded. ‘Sarah, I've decided to –'

‘If you haven't stopped the Boxer's Plains development, Anthony, I want you to immediately. The bank won't support us. I've just spoken to them. They might agree to increasing the overdraft to tidy up anything owing to the contractors – other than that we're on our own.'

‘I see.' He scrunched the airline schedule in his left hand.

‘Do you? I can't believe you didn't do any budget projections to present to the bank.' The line was silent. ‘The solicitor agrees that you'll have to forget about this development of yours.' Sarah took a breath. She had a foreboding feeling that she was sounding like Anthony's boss and not his partner and fiancée. ‘Anthony? Hello? Anthony, are you there?' She looked blankly at the receiver, the line was dead. ‘Damn it.' Anthony had never hung up on her before.

McKenzie didn't want to bother Mr Gordon, however intrigue was getting the better of him; that and an empty stomach. Having ridden from Crawford Corner in a flurry of excitement, they soon slowed. The better part of two hours was spent meandering through a grass paddock, after which they trailed the course of the river until midafternoon. McKenzie itched from the heat. When he scratched his hairy arm, dirt caked up under his nails. His stomach was rumbling terribly and his water was near gone. The horses stepped nimbly over fallen logs and then, without warning, they were splashing across a river sluggish from lack of rain. The horses drank for long minutes, slurping up gallons of the brown water, their whiskered nostrils quivering against the liquid.

Oozing mud sucked at their horses as they reached the opposite bank. Then they were urging the horses up the sandy slope and through a path of stringy saplings. A goanna ambling across their path took flight as they approached and scurried
quickly up a tree. McKenzie watched the prehistoric beast's progress. The blacks called them overland trout; reckoned they were good eating. Once or twice he'd tracked a goanna when he was near starving. If you were lucky and the lizard crossed loose dirt, its clawed feet and thick tail left visible impressions. He'd never tasted one though. Never been bitten by one either. The rotting flesh between their teeth left ulcerated, festering sores. Looking back over his shoulder, McKenzie's imagined feed disappeared as the trees merged and closed in behind him. He figured there would have been a fair chance of hitting him with his rifle. A wounding would do. He could finish the job with a lump of wood.

The day lengthened, layering shadows of light through the scrub. An hour or so would have them back at the station, so he was more than surprised when Hamish announced they would be stopping. They made camp under a carbine tree, tethering the horses nearby. He gathered wood as directed and made a good blaze of it. For once he was pleased to be camping out – there'd be no favours given this night with the Boss about.

‘Have you made a decision?' Jasperson settled his saddle and blanket by the fire. Pulling a ration of flour from his saddlebag, he knocked up a rough damper with a little water and sat it in the coals.

Hamish removed his jacket and sat, trying to find a more comfortable position. ‘Yes.' Unfurling a length of calico, he speared a piece of salted mutton and held it over the fire, nodding to McKenzie to help himself. ‘We'll be taking back what's ours and a measure of theirs.'

Jasperson chewed thoughtfully on a twig. ‘Times have changed a bit, Boss.'

‘You lost the taste for it then?' Hamish picked at the shreds of mutton sticking to his moustache.

Jasperson poked at the damper with the twig he'd been sucking.

Hamish spat gristle into the fire. ‘I'll not be relegated to the common class by a man such as Oscar Crawford. It's time the Englishman had a taste of what his countrymen did to mine. I will take back my cattle and some of his for good measure and we'll be doing it this next full moon.'

Jasperson speared the damper with a stick and sat it on the blanket. ‘We'll be needing Boxer and Luke.'

‘Mungo too,' Hamish looked at McKenzie, ‘and you, lad.'

McKenzie nodded trying to hide his suprise, his tongue sucking at the dried meat.

Jasperson threw McKenzie a chunk of steaming damper. ‘They'll be illegal doings.'

‘Are you up for it?' Hamish asked.

McKenzie looked at the man who owned Wangallon. He thought Hamish Gordon was a respectable pastoralist. His own plans for promotion looked amateurish in comparison and he wondered if he had more to worry about than Jasperson's inclinations. He took a bite of the steaming damper, the severe heat of it sticking to the roof of his mouth.

‘Well?' Jasperson's thin nose was pinched inwards.

The dough caught in McKenzie's throat. His first sighting of Hamish Gordon occurred at the building of the bore drain. That day the man threatened to shoot anyone who didn't toe the line. The dough slid uneasily down his gullet. ‘W-whatever y-you want, Mr Gordon. I-I'm your man.'

A crackle of leaves quieted them. Hamish pointed to the left, making a circling motion with his hand. Noiselessly they walked out into the darkness, edging away from the rim of the campfire, their rifles ready for action. They spent long minutes circumnavigating the camp, only to return empty-handed. The bush was noisy once one listened. The dull thud of kangaroos echoed through the timber, a creature squawked as if under attack, crickets chirped rhythmically.

‘Kangaroo?' Jasperson suggested once they were sitting back within the halo of the fire.

Hamish hunkered down in the dirt, resting his head on his saddle. ‘You keep watch, McKenzie. The bush is busy tonight.'

‘Blacks?' McKenzie propped his back against a tree. Jasperson shifted a heavy night log onto the fire and moved a little closer to it.

‘Maybe.' Stars flickered through the trees. Hamish thought they resembled candles sputtering through a mottled cloth of darkening greens and browns. As he drifted towards sleep an image of the miles of flay country extending outwards from the heart of Wangallon came to him. Like a shapeshifter, it merged to form mountains and valleys, easing out over rocky crags and grassy verges to the sandy shoreline of a nation too young to know true hardship. This was not a land like Scotland, where war was waged by those such as the English intent on control. This was not a country where the yoke of suppression had existed for hundreds of years. Hamish's eyes flicked open.

Sometimes he could recall the tangy scent of the Highlands, the slivering coldness of the loch. Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to return. To walk the pebble-strewn shoreline on acreage he would never truly own. Hamish could conjure his mother, carrying water from the loch, pulping their scant supply of oats for the small cakes she made on the hearth. There was dirt on her smiling face, her coarse woollen skirt was torn and her hair greasy. She had died in the winter, sharing her deathbed with their lone cow; her two surviving sons and a husband worrying about taxes. They were small memories, indistinct, yet recently their importance had grown.