The Bark Cutters (2 page)

Hamish Gordon studied the prone figure lying on the thin pallet of grass. From the sweat-soaked bedding an acrid smell wafted about the small room. For days now his beloved Mary had lain motionless, appearing to study the lance of light rippling across the thatched roof of the small hut, eating nothing, unable to speak. He poured water from a leather pouch through her cracked lips and leaned back on his knees as the cool fluid trickled down her chin. The fever had finally broken – she would survive.

About him a brisk wind brought the smell of herbage, the lingering scent of the season's last before winter. In the past such smells delighted him. Now it only served to remind him of the bleak days ahead. With one last look at the young woman he once hoped would be his bride, Hamish left the hut. He walked down towards the loch, through rippling green and purple vegetation, his leather boots striking the soil that yielded so easily for his family. At the loch's edge he pulled off his shirt and kilt and walked waist high into the freezing water, splashing himself with the cold liquid, as
if the action would cleanse him of Mary's betrayal. The coldness made his bladder empty itself immediately and as the warmth eddied about his thighs, he watched the clumps of purple on the land swell in the wind, the sprigs of violet seeming to dart towards him. Hamish knew he could no longer stay in this place, his home for the last seventeen years. Once he could have borne it. Even with the recent death of his mother. However, the dreadful pain of Mary's actions still burned in his chest and he knew it would never lessen if he remained.

Mary of Clanranald had appeared like a wisp of sunlight in the deepest fog only two months prior. Her voice reminded Hamish of the pure cadence of a flowing brook and she was the type of woman that others admired; pretty, strong and undemanding. She was the finest thing Hamish had ever seen. The fire-red lustre of her hair, the firm pink flesh of her parted lips, the strength of her fingers intertwined with his.

Hamish wiped at the tears welling in his eyes. He would have died for her. Returning to the hut, he slung a water pouch and his rolled bedding over the shoulder of his thick woollen tunic, before tucking his knife securely in his kilt, along with a small portion of dry oatmeal from their precious stores. A dense fog was rolling in across the loch this morning and he intended to be across the trickling burn and traversing the hill before it arrived to engulf their thatched hut. Outside, his father barred his path.

‘You'll be lost to me then, lad.'

Adjusting the leather straps across the broad wedge of his chest, Hamish considered the violet-eyed man whose resemblance to the father of his boyhood now lay depleted by injustice.

‘Aren't you forgetting the dead? What of your wee sisters?' his father persevered.

‘They're gone, Father, and not to be coming back,' Hamish answered curtly, brushing past him to leave the hut of his birth for the last time.

‘And what would you be expecting? That your ma and wee sisters will not know you've left them? They'll know, lad.'

Hamish listened to the puff of his father's breath as he laboured up the hill behind him. ‘Aye, and they know what type of father you've been also.'

Silence answered him.

Hamish thought of the brief respite summer brought before winter descended upon them. Soon enough the remaining inhabitants of the hut would be bringing the cow in for the winter. Sharing their meagre dwelling with their prized possession, they would spend freezing days with pitchfork in hand, scooping the animal's shit off the dirt floor and out onto the heather.

‘Many of our neighbours have managed to stay on.'

Hamish stopped abruptly and turned. His father's eyes remained steely, unrepentant. He recalled the great bear hugs of his youth. The harsh red-gold of his father's beard on his cheek stinging like a burst of sharp sleet-peppered rain. It was all too late. The chilling water of the loch seemed to have lodged itself in his gut. ‘Aye, and many have been forced to settle on the coast as crofters. I have heard the stories, Father, eking out a subsistence living from fish and farming, a small holding with high rents and starvation for company. I have no taste for such things.'

‘You imagine to be a drover then?' His father's voice grew tight with sarcasm. ‘Have you listened to nothing I've said?'

He wondered if his father honestly believed he was only leaving home to find a different type of work. ‘What, and receive the generous sum of one shilling a day, driving cattle purchased by the English at Falkirk to England?' Hamish had scoffed.

‘Aye, and they would not trust you, lad. You are a Highlander. They would clap irons on you for theft whether you were responsible or not.' His father's chaffed and cracked hands took him by the shoulders. ‘I know you grieve, lad, but give it time.'

Hamish shrugged him off. ‘I can't forgive you,' he said roughly.
The anger surging through his body begged for revenge. He must leave before his fury caused actions he would ultimately regret. He turned his back on his father. One goodbye remained. Regardless of what he thought of his younger brother's role in his betrayal, he did need to see the lad. Hamish thought of their short years together. To the illness that young Charlie suffered every winter. To his tendency to get lost, not listen nor follow advice. It was best to leave the boy behind, besides Hamish was past caring for anyone anymore. With a swipe at the tears gathering in his eyes he turned in the opposite direction to his father.

The springy turf of autumn already grown sparse with the season crackled beneath Hamish's feet. The top of their hill was only a few strides away when Charlie's tear-bloated face appeared before him, his young lips trembling.

‘I'll come too.' Charlie's eyes trailed their father's progress downhill to their hut.

‘No, lad.' Hamish tried to curb the anger of the past few weeks.

‘Yes.' Charlie swiped at the moisture tumbling freely down his cheeks. ‘Please.'

‘It will not be an easy journey. I've no idea where I'm going. I may leave this country altogether. Goodbye lad and take care.' Hamish shifted his belongings into a more comfortable position and trudged on upwards into the gathering fog, his feet following the path worn bare by their traffic. He looked behind only once. The figure of his father disappeared as a sheet of whiteness descended into the valley below, obliterating the hut from view. Closer, he could see Charlie following at a cautious pace.

‘Leave me, Charlie,' his voice echoed in the whiteness. Surely the lad would become disorientated and be forced to return to their valley. The persistent
shush shush
of stamped vegetation answered him. Hamish grunted and increased his pace.

‘These two are my children, Sarah and Cameron.'

They had been out riding early, aware that their father would soon be turning up the back road with the new jackeroo. Taking a short cut across the corner paddock through a clump of black wattle, they had arrived at the boundary gate just in time to find the Toyota pulling up and a tall guy opening the gate. They urged their horses forward a little further until they were just a few feet away and Sarah caught the deep brown of the jackeroo's eyes. She found herself thinking of rich chocolate icing and she pulled her Akubra further down on her head, suddenly self-conscious.

Cameron pulled his left leg across his horse and casually rested it on the pummel of the saddle before sliding off, his jeans brushing his mount fleetingly. ‘Hi there.'

‘You must be Cameron, I'm Anthony.' They shook hands warmly.

Sliding her foot out of the stirrup to dismount, Sarah stopped herself quickly. Sometimes Oscar didn't go much on being
remounted, invariably the old bugger would wait until she had one boot in the stirrup and then trot away, leaving her hopping stupidly until she could either jump up on him, untangle her boot or he decided to stop. Deciding not to let fate cheat her of her dignity, Sarah satisfied herself with a perfect view of Wangallon's new recruit. Anthony and her brother were the same height, tall and lanky, with the same laconic grins and expressions of mischief on their tanned faces. Yet where Cameron's light brown hair was sun-streaked, Anthony's was glossy and verging on the rusty brown sheen of a bronze-wing pigeon.

‘And this is my sister, Sarah.' Cameron clapped Anthony hard on the back. ‘She's looking for a husband. You know, nice family, bush heritage, a bit of ability.'

‘Cameron!' Yelling in embarrassment Sarah quickly removed her hat, walking Oscar over to where her brother stood to belt him over the head with it. At that moment, a pair of kookaburras burst into laughter.
Bugger
, she thought with discomfit, maybe she would have been better off to let old Oscar drag her into the sunset. At the thought the kookaburras' noise increased, echoing through the morning air.

‘She's already got a good temper,' Cameron chuckled as he swung neatly onto his horse, his pale eyes lighting up. ‘Oh, and she likes singing, although I can't seem to wean her off Michael Jackson.' With a casual tug on the reins he trotted off into the scrub in the direction of the homestead.

‘Nice to meet you,' Sarah said, replacing her hat firmly on her head. When she got home she was going to hide Cameron's Springsteen cassette.

‘Likewise.' Anthony touched the brim of his hat. When his fingers left the felt Sarah noticed that a slight dip remained. Perhaps it was a remnant of the red-tinged months of summer when his hat rested on the edge of a table or maybe it was a lasting impression of continued politeness. For a moment she
hesitated, twisting her fingers through the knotty chestnut mane of her horse, wishing she had put a comb through it. As if sensing her indecision the kookaburras stopped their laughter. Sarah listened as the crackling of dry undergrowth signalled the growing distance of her brother. ‘So, is your family from the bush?' she blurted out, as she took in the length of his legs and the faded blue of his shirt.

‘The Monaro. Down South,' he smiled. ‘I'm suffering from the younger brother syndrome. The place isn't big enough for both of us.'

‘How long are you working for us?' There was just the slightest tinge of blue beneath his eyes.

‘Why? You're not trying to get rid of me already? I kinda like this climate; nice and green, regular rainfall and all that.'

His eyes were so dark, almost decadent in their depth. He had taken a step closer. Close enough for the slight etching of a scar to be revealed. It highlighted the arc of his cheekbone, the inverted crescent shape ending with the tail of a question mark. Even as she stared Sarah could imagine her forefinger deftly examining the slight indentation, caressing the pale thin line surrounded as it was by the darker hue marking a life lived outdoors. His face, strong and composed, fell to a sculptor's vision of a jawline before his body disappeared into the duck-egg blue of his shirt.

‘Come on, you two, that's enough fraternising between camps for one day.'

It was her father calling out, revving the engine and winding up his window.

‘Better go,' Anthony said, not moving. She was a cute-looking kid.

‘Yep, hope you like it here, Anthony.' Sarah turned her horse. She flicked the rump of the gelding, riding faster than usual, wondering if he was watching, but not daring to look back.

‘Well, is anyone going to enlighten me as to our new employee?' Sue enquired across the kitchen table at dinner.

Sarah and her brother continued to chew steadily on their steak and salad. Having already both been reprimanded for speaking with their mouths full they were loath to answer. Instead, they concentrated on hiding their respective grimaces from their mother as they bit into uncooked flowerets of broccoli mixed in with iceberg lettuce, home-grown vine tomatoes and thick rings of red salad onion.

‘He's from the Monaro. Good family. Has ability. Nice kid,' Ronald concluded. Having finished his dinner he poured himself another glass of wine. ‘Actually I think Anthony will fit in quite well here although it's early days yet. He's quite mature for his age and he gets on very well with my father.'

Sue folded her napkin into its customary elongated triangle. ‘Well God forbid if he didn't prostrate himself in front of the mighty Angus Gordon.' Tilting her head, she gave a tight smile that encompassed her children's partially eaten meals. Her hand surfaced from her lap to rest on the table and the slow, expectant tapping of her fingers indicated she was ready for an argument.

Taking two large mouthfuls in quick succession, Sarah looked across the table to where, sure enough, her brother's stealthy
let's get out of here look
waited.

‘Sarah, tomorrow I expect you to read up on your correspondence lessons for Monday. The booklet came in the mail yesterday.'

‘Okay,' Sarah glumly agreed. Her brother, having finished his schooling nearly two years ago, was free to work alongside their father and spend his spare time as he wished; which usually involved being as far away from the house as possible.

‘Someone's gotta do it, Sarah,' Cameron remarked happily, pointedly folding and re-folding his napkin in a poor attempt at an origami swan. While he'd only just managed to pass his Higher School Certificate, Sarah didn't seem to have any problems with her studies. ‘By the way, have you seen my Bruce Springsteen tape?'

‘Hmm.' Sarah took another mouthful of food and chewed thoughtfully. ‘Why? You're not missing it, are you?'

Cameron screwed up his eyes as if he could mentally extract an answer. ‘Sarah?'

‘Anyway,' Ronald interrupted, ‘Anthony's a good bloke, Sue. You'll like him.'

‘Maybe. In the meantime your father is coming to dinner tomorrow night.'

‘What, here?' Sarah asked. She couldn't recall the last time their grandfather had visited them midyear. She had not seen him for a month. In fact even before Granny Angie died of asthma he was a rare sighting at their home. Their grandfather, when not out on the property, tended to hunker down at the main homestead, Wangallon. Sarah couldn't blame him. It was a sprawling homestead filled with the Gordon heirlooms and apart from relatively new paint and wallpaper, remarkably intact; which apparently was just how the National Trust liked their heritage-listed buildings. Cameron believed their grandfather's scarcity was a good thing, for it meant their father was able to manage his own block of land, West Wangallon, without interference. Yet Sarah knew better. Angus Gordon was forever roaming the property, checking on staff, stock, equipment and the condition of boundary fences.

‘Yes. Something important. Well important enough to have him leave the big house and venture down here to our humble abode.'

‘Geez,' Cameron exclaimed. ‘The old fella coming here for dinner. We'll have to kill the fatted calf.'

‘Don't be cheeky,' Ronald chastised.

‘No need for that,' Sue answered quite seriously, ‘we're having mutton stew.'

‘Great,' Sarah and her brother chimed in unison.

After dinner Sarah and Cameron raced to the television set.
A Country Practice
was about to start and Sarah loved the programme.

‘
The Leyland Brothers
are on tonight,' Cameron reminded her.

‘Good luck.
Dallas
is on too.'

‘No way.' He liked
The Leyland Brothers
. They invariably got stuck somewhere out in the middle of nowhere.

Sarah squirreled down further into the lime green beanbag. ‘Maybe Mum will forget. She doesn't always remember things these days.'

Cameron looked at her and rolled his eyes. ‘Big hair, big shoulders and plastered-on makeup? She'll remember.' Cameron leaned back in his own beanbag and, reaching for a cushion decorating one of the chairs behind him, threw it at his sister. His aim was perfect, hitting her fair in the head.

‘Hey!' She lifted the cushion and pelted it back at him.

Cameron caught it. ‘If you give me back my cassette, you can have a cigarette.'

‘True?'

‘True.'

Sarah considered the trade. ‘It's worth two.'

‘Okay.' Cameron laughed. ‘Geez you're a hard bargainer.'

Sarah smiled sweetly. She had a nice little stack of cigarettes under her bed, which was a handy stockpile to have on the occasions when her brother's supply ran out and she needed a favour.

Angus Gordon strode up the back path of West Wangallon at 6.30 p.m. sharp. He noted the freshly mown lawn and just-watered geranium-filled terracotta pots before a whiff of jasmine circulating in the soft breeze caught him off guard. The scent drew memories of freshly cut flowers, the soft tinkle of piano music and the lavender water that once wafted in a trail behind his beloved wife. He knew it was time to let her go, to restart his life even if he was pushing eighty, yet somehow her image was stronger than ever, his memories alive and vital. At any time of the day she could appear miraculously, catching him unawares in a haze of heat, reflected in a window or in the birdsong of the tiny darting jenny wrens she loved so much. At such moments it was easy to imagine her in her garden, chasing the work dogs with a stiff straw broom when they invaded her domain, her wispy white halo of hair coming askew from beneath her wide-brimmed straw hat.

Perhaps it was just as well that she shadowed him, for it was not his intention to remarry. He had no time for such luxuries anymore and even less for the blossoming and nurturing of a new love incapable of equalling his first. It had taken three long years to let her go and now, having finally accepted that he would be alone for the rest of his life, it was time to move on. There were other far weightier matters to oversee, highlighted by the uncertainty of his life span. In truth he guessed he was lucky to be here. He was the only surviving son from his father's second wife, a late addition after a couple of stillbirths; although his solitary presence ensured Wangallon's continuation. There had been no splitting of land required for recalcitrant siblings.