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.
She hurried through the one-room terminal, collected her bag and was one of the first passengers to reach the car park. There was a meeting organised with Jim Macken in three days and Sarah desperately wanted to see Anthony. She’d missed him despite their disagreement and she needed to sit down with him, smooth things over and decide what the best option was. The three men currently in her life all favoured paying out her half-brother and saw benefit in a development of some sort. Maybe it was time to stop fighting everyone.
‘So you’re back?’ Anthony was sitting quietly at the table having an early lunch. Sarah shut the back door and dropped her bag. Pleased to be finally home, the excitement drained at his tone.
‘Hi.’
‘Have you eaten?’ His back remained turned towards her.
She’d been ready to swoop on him with a hug. ‘No, but I’ll get something.’ Somehow Sarah didn’t think Anthony was going to make it for her. She busied herself carving a few slices of meat from the leg of mutton on the sink and then buttered the white bread that was almost past eating. ‘It’s good to be home.’ Sarah added meat and tomato sauce.
‘Nice of you to call and let me know you were coming.’ He didn’t look up from his sandwich.
Sarah took a bite. The meat was tough and the bread hard. ‘What happened to your hand?’ The knuckles on his right hand were strapped and a ghastly blue-green bruise spread out from under the narrow taping.
Anthony lifted his hand and turned it slowly, as if