The Bark Cutters (27 page)

Sarah applied a disinfectant cream to her badly grazed face and pretended her ribs were fine. Three times she agreed with her grandfather about her good fortune that Anthony was present when she fell. Yes, he was a fine man, she agreed for the sake of peace. Yes, they were extremely fortunate to have him. A small jenny wren came to rest on the awning of the kitchen blind as Sarah emptied the small bowl of warm water and Pine-O-Cleen.

‘Stations like Wangallon need men like Anthony. In the years to come you'll appreciate his talents, girl. I've taught him a lot.'

‘What if he leaves?'

‘Leave Wangallon?' Angus scoffed. ‘He won't leave and even the ones that do,' he pointedly implied, ‘come back.'

Only for visits
, Sarah thought. Strangely enough though, she was beginning to feel a little more settled. Perhaps it was due to
her parents' absence. With their departure, her visits to Wangallon were more peaceful, less filled with angst and feelings of guilt.

‘Good man, Anthony.'

She supposed it was natural that Anthony benefited from her grandfather's knowledge. Although sometimes she wondered if she would have been taught half as much if she'd stayed and her brother was still alive. She doubted it. Still, it didn't matter much anymore. Anthony allowed Wangallon to survive, allowed her grandfather to live his days out on the blood soil that cradled the souls of their family. If Anthony left, Wangallon's future would be insecure.

It was fairly plain that the girl's ribs were bruised. Angus could tell by the way she favoured her side as she moved. Leaning back into his old high-backed chair, he listened to the comforting squeak of old leather as he manoeuvred his bum amongst the unruly springs beneath. The old girl really needed to be re-upholstered but he just couldn't bear to part with her, even for a couple of weeks.

His granddaughter hovered in the doorway.

‘And you're waiting for?' Angus asked gruffly.

‘My plane leaves at –'

‘Yes, yes,' he waved a hand at her in annoyance, ‘back to the big smoke tomorrow, eh?' And lover-boy he supposed. ‘Well I'll drive you to the airport on condition that you return to Wangallon for the annual picnic races.'

‘So soon?' Sarah asked tiredly. She figured she would need at least a month in Sydney to recover from this visit.

Angus gave his best old-man smile. ‘Please.'

‘All right.'

‘Excellent.' Angus already had his report from Matt Leach, now all he needed was to get the girl back as soon as possible. Money and love, those two things, he decided, would win anyone over, including his difficult granddaughter.

It was late afternoon. Sarah wandered through Wangallon homestead. It had been built to capture and direct as much cool air as possible. In its interconnecting rooms, curtains fragile with age billowed in the morning breeze; heavier damask, in faded golden hues, hung sedately in darkened formal rooms. Rich timbers of oak and mahogany rested under a fine layer of dust, while last century's novels and encyclopaedias were shuttered within cedar bookcases. Its pisè-walled rooms, a nineteenth-century concoction of baked straw and mud, were smooth and covered with plaster and Sarah ran her hand over the cool surface, enjoying the touch. Behind her she heard footsteps on the polished cypress floorboards. Expecting to see her grandfather, she waited. The sound vanished. Sarah walked back through the drawing room and then crossed another hallway.

She was in the oldest part of the homestead now, where age and the earth's movement had cracked walls and upset foundations. The wooden floor was uneven and the long hall that had once led out to the covered walkway to the cook house was now sealed up, a tapestry hanging on the wall where a door use to be. Again the footsteps sounded, this time only briefly. Sarah turned. Diagonally opposite were two bedroom doors: one room once belonged to her great-grandfather, Hamish, the other to his first wife, Rose. This area of the house was never used now. Her grandmother Angie had used Rose's room as a sewing room when she was alive and Sarah's mother had made Rose's room her own after their forced move from West Wangallon after the flood.
It was strange then that Rose's bedroom door was open. Sarah walked towards the partly open door and pushed at it tentatively. The door swung open. Inside was a washstand with a matching ceramic bowl and water jug, an old wardrobe and a bed. Sarah laughed at her nervousness. Yet she could smell lavender and the slightly creased pale pink bed cover looked as if someone had been sitting there only moments before.

‘What are you doing in this part of the house?'

Sarah started at her grandfather's voice. ‘I thought I heard something.'

He cocked an eyebrow. ‘You probably did. Your grandmother often heard the odd thing, although I put it down to an old house having a bit of a stretch now and then.'

‘What was Rose like?' Sarah asked.

‘Who knows, girl. She was gone way before my time.'

‘But there are no pictures of her or anything.'

‘Wasn't a lot of photographic stuff back then. Now why don't you go out and get a bit of air.' Angus waited until Sarah's footsteps could be heard echoing through the house, then he entered Rose's bedroom, smoothed the bed cover and opened the curtains so that the afternoon light filled the room. When he left he closed the bedroom door securely behind him.

Dusk was falling. Having slithered through the concave of dirt under the back gate, Shrapnel wandered slowly up the cement path. He sat down beside Sarah on the back step, resting his head on her leg. With a yawn, he stretched out and slept quietly under the rhythmic stroking of Sarah's hand, a hind leg twitching from the chase of his dreams, occasional soft yelps coming from him. Spiky hairs stuck out from his nose, and he limped slightly from a wound received last year. Out one day
with his master, he'd baled up a wild boar at the base of a wilga tree. Barking and yelping, Shrapnel had charged continuously, rushing in to nip at the squat body well fed on young, weak lambs it had devoured over the course of a week. Eventually Angus, managing to keep Shrapnel clear, unloaded a round into the old boar, not however, before the pig made one last assault on Shrapnel, ripping the dog's hind leg with its tusks. Sarah ran her fingers along the scar.

Earlier in the day, Sarah had walked down to the line of trees sheltering the dog cages. These large wire compounds with their kennels and self-feeding water trough held the black-and-white sheep dogs and cattle dogs so crucial to the working of Wangallon. With Shrapnel, Sarah watched Colin pull the still warm kangaroo carcass off the Toyota's tray, the animal hitting the ground with a heavy thud. It was usual practice to supplement dog biscuits with fresh meat and Sarah observed as the jackeroo deftly used a long blade to slice through the coarse brown hair, pulling the hide smoothly away. As he did so, he pointed out the most efficient cutting procedures, explaining which joints to crack and the direction they twisted in most easily.

Sarah squatted on the ground, listening carefully to his detail, surprised at the way he turned a basic task into a skilled abattoir procedure. Within ten minutes the operation was completed and each dog was content with a large slab of fresh meat.

‘Why did you crack the whip this morning?' She finally ventured to ask.

‘I didn't.'

‘There's not much point denying it.'

‘Believe what you like.'

Sarah couldn't see the point in arguing. It was clear Colin wasn't going to admit to his part in her accident. It was only as she turned to leave that she noticed the pouch.

‘Colin, you killed a mother. What happened to the joey?'

The jackeroo speared the dry ground with his butchering knife and casually wiped bloody hands on an already filthy shirt. They both knew the rules: never kill a roo with a joey in its pouch. Colin took a cigarette from his top pocket. Dried blood and fur stuck to his fingers as he brought the cigarette to his mouth.

‘Dead. Chased her down and ran over the bugger.'

‘You did
what
?' Grandfather had always been explicit: look after the bush and it'll look after you. To this end he maintained the roos might well bugger his crops and the dogs had to be fed, but shooting mothers with joeys was not his idea of natural selection.

‘Look, Sarah,' Colin dragged heavily on his cigarette, ‘if you don't like it …'

‘It is not a matter of not liking it. There is a right and a wrong way.'

Colin took another drag. Snorting contemptuously, he leaned down slowly and pulled his knife from the dirt, wiping it again before securing it in its sheath. Sarah crossed her arms.

‘Your boss is my grandfather. He would expect …'

Colin dropped his cigarette in the dust and ground it dead with the heel of his Cuban boot. ‘My boss is Anthony. I do the jobs I'm meant to.' He reached down and grasped the hind leg of the mutilated carcass. ‘I don't reckon you'd have any idea what that involves. If you were meant to be in the bush, you'd be here. Instead you're causing problems and killing horses.' He began hauling the carcass towards the Toyota.

Sarah walked after him, kicking the dirt angrily. ‘Just remember who you're talking to, Colin. I know you caused my accident. Don't think you're so indispensable. I can quite easily tell Grandfather to fire you.'

He didn't answer immediately. He would've liked to say something to get her real stirred up, stupid bitch that she was. Wasn't much point losing his hair over it, though, wouldn't help Anthony
none. Besides, Anthony ran Wangallon, not the old fella. Sure it wasn't his place, but the old bloke had to leave it to someone, and he couldn't very well leave it to a sheila. His job was safe.

‘Expecting people to watch out for ya. This is a station you know, not a –' Colin heaved the roo carcass onto the back of the Toyota – ‘a camp.' She called out something, but he revved the vehicle, easily drowning out her whining as he drove away.

The dry air hung about Sarah's body. Shrapnel, scratching furiously, bit into the stillness, attempting to rid his face of small insects. The noise of crickets intensified as daytime creatures quieted. Even the feeding dogs were settling, their growls quietening as they retired to their kennels or found a hollowed cool place to sleep. A horse whinnied, the sound so far off it was possible it had carried for miles. This was her favourite time, just after sunset, with the animals fed and the cries of birds dulling. Inside, her grandfather was showering before settling down to the ABC news. A breeze stirred as she headed towards the recently delved house dam where accumulated silt had been choking their water supply. Normally water was pumped from the dam to a large underground tank. Here the water settled before being piped into the house. With the dam finally dried up, the tank attracted everything from small mice to snakes. It was better not to look in it before you showered; just the smell of drowned animals was enough.