A Changing Land Read online

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  Divertissements: Love, War, Society – Selected Poems

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  A Changing Land

  ePub ISBN 9781742743189

  Kindle ISBN 9781742743196

  A Bantam book

  Published by Random House Australia Pty Ltd

  Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060

  www.randomhouse.com.au

  First published by Bantam in 2011

  Copyright © Nicole Alexander 2011

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia.

  Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at www.randomhouse.com.au/offices

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry

  Alexander, Nicole.

  A Changing Land

  ISBN: 978 1 74166 943 5 (pbk)

  A823.4

  Cover photograph of woman © Masterfile

  Cover photograph of landscape © Photolibrary

  Cover design by Blue Cork

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Also by Nicole Alexander

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Imprint Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Spring, 1987 ~ Wangallon Station

  Part One

  Autumn, 1989 ~ Wangallon Station

  Spring, 1908 ~ West Wangallon

  Autumn, 1989 ~ Wangallon Station

  Late Spring, 1908 ~ Central Western NSW

  Autumn, 1989 ~ Wangallon Station

  Late Spring, 1908 ~ Central Western NSW

  Summer, 1908 ~ Wangallon Station

  Autumn, 1989 ~ Wangallon Station

  Summer, 1908 ~ Five miles north of Wangallon Town

  Winter, 1989 ~ Wangallon Station

  Summer, 1908 ~ Wangallon Station Homestead

  Summer, 1908 ~ Wangallon Town

  Winter, 1989 ~ Wangallon Station

  Summer, 1908 ~ Wangallon Town Hotel, en route to Wangallon Station

  Winter, 1989 ~ Wangallon Station Homestead

  Summer, 1908 ~ Wangallon Station Homestead, Christmas Eve

  Winter, 1989 ~ Wangallon Station

  High Summer, 1989 ~ Northern Scotland

  Summer, 1908 ~ Wangallon Station Homestead, Christmas Day

  Winter, 1989 ~ Wangallon Station Homestead

  Summer, 1908 ~ Wangallon Station Homestead

  Winter, 1989 ~ Wangallon Station

  Midsummer, 1908 ~ Wangallon Station

  Winter, 1989 ~ Boxer’s Plains

  Winter, 1989 ~ Wangallon Station

  Midsummer, 1908 ~ Wangallon Station Homestead

  Winter, 1989 ~ Wangallon Station

  Summer, 1908 ~ Wangallon Station Homestead

  High Summer, 1989 ~ Northern Scotland

  Part Two

  Midsummer, 1908 ~ Wangallon Station Aboriginal Camp

  Winter, 1989 ~ Wangallon Station

  Summer, 1908 ~ Wangallon Station, New Year’s Eve

  Midwinter, 1989 ~ Castlereagh Street, Sydney

  Summer, 1908 ~ Crawford Corner Homestead, New Year’s Eve

  Midwinter, 1989 ~ Boxer’s Plains

  Summer, 1908 ~ Wangallon Station, New Year’s Eve

  Midwinter, 1990 ~ The Gold Coast, Queensland

  Midsummer, 1909 ~ Wangallon Town Hotel

  Midwinter, 1989 ~ The Gold Coast, Queensland

  Midsummer, 1909 ~ Wangallon Station

  Midwinter, 1989 ~ Wangallon Station

  Midsummer, 1909 ~ Wangallon Station

  Midwinter, 1989 ~ Wangallon Station

  Midsummer, 1909 ~ Three miles from Wangallon Station Homestead

  Midwinter, 1989 ~ Wangallon Station

  Midsummer, 1909 ~ Wangallon Station Homestead

  High Summer, 1989 ~ Northern Scotland

  Midsummer, 1909 ~ Wangallon Station

  Midsummer, 1909 ~ Crawford Corner Homestead

  Midwinter, 1989 ~ Wangallon Station Homestead

  Midwinter, 1989 ~ Castlereagh Street, Sydney

  Midsummer, 1909 ~ Wangallon Station Homestead

  Midwinter, 1989 ~ Castlereagh Street, Sydney

  Midsummer, 1909 ~ Wangallon Town

  Midsummer, 1909 ~ Wangallon Station

  High Summer, 1989 ~ Northern Scotland

  Midwinter, 1989 ~ Elizabeth Street, Sydney

  Midsummer, 1909 ~ Wangallon Station, adjacent to the Wangallon River

  Midwinter, 1989 ~ Wangallon Station

  Midsummer, 1909 ~ Wangallon Station, eastern boundary

  Midsummer, 1909 ~ Wangallon River

  Midwinter, 1989 ~ Wangallon Station

  Late Summer, 1989 ~ Northern Scotland

  Midsummer, 1909 ~ Wangallon Station

  Summer, 1990 ~ Wangallon Station Homestead, New Year’s Day

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Reading group questions

  Random House

  To those who have gone before us:

  the pioneers

  Sarah stared at the headstones, at the ageing monuments silhouetted by the rising moon. The clearing was strangely quiet and she wondered whether the spirits of Wangallon were welcoming her grandfather, Angus, at some other sacred place on the property. Lifting the latch on the peeling wooden gate, she stepped through grass grown long by recent spring rains. Twigs and leaves crackled beneath her, the soft soil creating an imprint of her passing. The familiar pounding of a kangaroo echoed across the narrow stretch of water that formed the twisting Wangallon Creek, and with their movement a flock of lorikeets squawked in a tall gum tree before resettling for the night.

  Sarah stopped first by her brother Cameron’s grave, and then at the freshly turned mound that covered her beloved grandfather. For the first time the enormity of his passing settled on her slight shoulders. To have lost him, of all people, was incomprehensible, yet curled about her grief like a shroud was a sense of responsibility almost too great to imagine. She was now the beneficiary of a thirty per cent share in their family property, Wangallon. She was, as her father pointed out, the only legitimate Gordon left, apart from himself; nearly everyone else was buried here within the arms of the property that her great-grandfather, Hamish Gordon, founded in 1858. Sarah looked at the ancient headstones: grandmother, brother, great uncle, wives, young children and Hamish Gordon. He that had amassed what was now one of the largest privately held properties left in north-western New South Wales.

  Years ago Sarah had wished for such an opportunity, dreamt of it and could admit to resentment at having been passed over because of a chance of birth. Then Cameron died and Anthony– the hired help as her mother called him – eventually beca
me manager. Now everything was different. As a direct descendent, Sarah knew the fates had anointed her as custodian of Wangallon and she felt ill-prepared for the future. She shook her head, hoping to clear a little of the fatigue and grief that had seeped into her veins over the last week. Soon they would be booking the contractors up for lamb marking, soon they would … but she couldn’t recall what was scheduled next, she was too tired. Leaning against the trunk of a gum tree, Sarah rested her palms on the bark beneath her. Through the canopy of leaves above her, the sky was gun-metal blue. There were few stars, for what elements could compete with the moon that now blanketed her in a mantle of silver.

  ‘Sarah?’

  Anthony’s voice startled her. She’d not heard the Landcruiser approach and was unsure how long she had been weeping beneath the moon’s glow. Anthony took her hand and helped her to her feet, brushing the soil from her clothes.

  ‘I didn’t want to leave you out here any longer. I know you needed to say goodbye without the hordes that were here earlier but –’

  Sarah kissed him on the cheek. ‘It’s okay. I’m okay.’

  He looked at her tear-stained face and cocked an eyebrow. ‘You’ve barely slept this last week.’ He knew, for he had laid beside her and floated on the memory of sleep as she tossed and turned through each successive night. ‘You should get some rest.’

  Sarah allowed herself to be led from the graveyard, listened as the latch on the small gate clicked shut. Moon shadows followed their progress.

  Anthony placed a supportive arm around her slight waist. His girl had lost weight in the week since old Angus’s death. Anthony was worried about her. ‘We need to sit down and work out the management plans for the next twelve to eighteen months. How does that sound?’ Sarah looked at him blankly. ‘We’ve the lambs to mark and …’ He could tell she wasn’t listening; her gaze was fixed somewhere out in the darkness of the countryside. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll handle things until you feel more up to it.’ Leading her around to the passenger-side door, Anthony helped her into her seat. ‘Look, I brought a little friend for you.’

  Sarah stroked the shiny fat pup Anthony placed in her lap. It was Bullet, one of the pups by Angus’s dog Shrapnel. She hugged the little dog fiercely. ‘Grandfather wanted this one.’

  Reversing the Landcruiser away from the cemetery, Anthony headed in the direction of Wangallon Homestead. ‘He’s yours.’

  Sarah rested her hand on Anthony’s thigh.

  ‘Everything will be fine, Sarah.’ His grip tightened on her fingers.

  The words were so familiar. Anthony uttered them after Cameron’s death, after the flood of 1986, after her parents retired to the coast and once again when her mother went into respite care.

  ‘Really, everything will be fine,’ Anthony repeated.

  Once is a comfort, Sarah thought, pressing the warm, wiggling pup against her cheek, twice is not.

  As they drove away a lone fox moved stealthily through the ageing monuments. The animal padded carefully through tufts of grass, pausing to sniff the air. Finally he located the freshly turned soil of Angus Gordon’s grave and curled up beside the mounded earth.

  Tucked up in her bed, with Anthony’s rhythmic breath marking out the long hours of the night, Sarah tried unsuccessfully to sleep. Her heart seemed to have taken on a life of its own and it fluttered erratically. At times during the night she found herself clutching at her chest, her breath catching in her throat, her eyes tearing in fright. She knew grief and uncertainty were causing the symptoms she experienced, yet common sense didn’t ease her distress.

  As the night dragged and the moon spread its glow through the open doors leading out onto the gauze verandah, Sarah watched dancing shapes flickering about her. Outlines of branches and leaves jostled for attention like paper puppets against the cream bedroom wall as she drifted through snippets of conversation shared with her grandfather. This moment was akin to the passing of her brother, for it heralded both unwanted change and an unknown future. Who would guide them now the wily Angus Gordon was no longer with them?

  Near dawn Sarah felt a numbness begin to seep through her. With a sigh she rolled on her side, only just conscious of Anthony rising to meet the working day. As the morning sun penetrated the calming dark of the room, she pulled the bedclothes over her head and closed puffy eyes against all thoughts of her changed life. The house was quiet, too quiet. A scatter of leaves on the corrugated iron roof competed with morning birdsong. Sarah huddled further down beneath the covers, tears building. She sensed movement on the verandah and tried to calm herself with her grandfather’s words: It’s only the old house stretching itself, girl, he would say. Now more than ever, Sarah doubted his words. She was one of the custodians of Wangallon now and the spirits from the past were well aware of a newly delineated present.

  Forty emus raced across the road, their long legs stretching out from beneath thickly feathered bodies as their small erect heads fastened on the fence line some five hundred metres away. Sarah couldn’t resist going up a gear on the quad bike. She pressed her right thumb down firmly on the accelerator lever and leant into the rushing wind. Bullet, her part-kelpie, part-blue cattle dog, pushed up tight against her back, squirrelling sideways until his head was tucked under her armpit. She swerved off the dirt road in pursuit of the emus, the bike tipping precariously to one side before righting itself. A jolt went through her spine as the quad tyres hit rough ground. Then the bike was airborne.

  Bullet lost his balance on landing. He gave a warning yelp as Sarah grabbed at his thick leather collar, managing to drag him up onto her lap. Despite the urge to go faster, she slowed the bike down, the brown blur of feathers dodging trees and scrub to outrun her. Sarah loved emus, but not the damage they did to fences or the crops they trampled. Chasing them off Wangallon, albeit onto a neighbouring property, seemed a better alternative to breaking their eggs in the nest to cull numbers. She poked along slowly on the quad until she reached the fence. A number of emus had managed to push their prehistoric bodies through the wires, while the rest ran up and down the boundary trying to find a way out. Bullet whimpered. Sarah reached the fence as the last of the mob disappeared into the scrub, scattering merino sheep in their wake.

  ‘Sorry.’ Sarah apologised as the dog jumped from the bike, turning to stare at her. Bullet never had gone much on losing his footing and it was clear Sarah would not be forgiven quickly. He walked over to the nearest tree and lay down in protest.

  Two bottom wires on the fence were broken and the telltale signs of snagged wool and emu feathers on the third wire suggested this wasn’t a recent break. Sarah walked along the fence-side, stepping over fallen branches, clumps of galvanized burr and a massive ants’ nest of mounded earth a good three feet in height. Eventually she located the two lengths of wire that had sprung back on breaking. Taking the bottom wire she tugged at it and threaded it through the holes on the iron fence posts until she was back near the original break. She did the same with the second wire and then walked back to the quad bike where an old plastic milk crate was secured with rope. Inside sat a pair of pliers and the fence strainers. Grabbing the tools, Sarah cut a couple of feet off the bottom wire, then interlaced it with the freshly cut piece until it looked like a rough figure eight. She pulled on it, feeling the strain in her back, until it tightened into a secure join, then she attached the strainers and pulled back and forwards on the lever. The action tightened the wire gradually. Once taut, Sarah used the pliers to join the ends. More wire was needed to repair the bottom run but at least it would baulk any more sheep from escaping.

  Whistling to Bullet to rejoin her, Sarah followed the fence for some distance on the quad before cutting across the paddock. Little winter herbage could be seen between the tufts of grass. The rain long hoped for in March and April had not arrived and May was also proving to be a dry month. It was disappointing considering the rain which had fallen in early February. Within ten days of receiving nearly six inches, there was a great body
of feed and then four weeks later, with a late heatwave of 42 degree days, the heavy grass cover sucked the land dry and the feed that would have easily carried their stock through a cold winter began to die off. The pattern of the next few months was trailing out before her like a dusty road. In one month they may have to begin supplementing the cattle with feed; in two they may have to be feeding the sheep corn. By mid-July they would begin the search for agistment or perhaps place a couple of mobs of cattle on the stock route.