time. Damn it, how did someone so meticulous end up stuffing things up so badly and in the middle of when their livelihoods were at stake? He should be supporting her efforts to save Wangallon, not chasing his own reckless agenda. Sarah stepped out of the chrome and glass swinging door and turned into a strong head wind. What a mixed bag Wangallon’s inheritors turned out to be. Anthony inherited a share in the property due to his ability and loyalty and because Angus hoped that one day they would marry; she’d been left a share because she was a direct descendent, and Jim? Sarah shook her head, it was all too simple. She came from a line of men that demanded testicles for succession and Jim had Gordon blood. Sarah walked down the street looking for a restaurant, any restaurant. She needed a drink and a friend.
Lauren spooned the rest of the rabbit stew into her mouth, scraping at the watery juices with a piece of hard bread and her finger. She couldn’t recall eating such a feed before, especially one cooked and served by her mother. She lifted the plate, licking at it appreciatively until her tongue grew numb.
‘More?’ Mrs Grant heaved the cast iron pot from the hearth to sit it on the rickety table. She stuck the ladle into the bubbling contents and stirred the overcooked rabbit. Lauren considered another spoonful but having already consumed two platefuls she glanced guiltily at her young sister and baby brother. They were sitting on the dirt floor, grinding feathery peppercorn leaves between their fingers, smelling the pungent peppery scent before throwing the crushed leaves into the air. They would be sharing one meal tonight.
‘You’re sure then? You won’t be getting a decent feed for a good day I’d imagine.’
Lauren prodded at her belly. ‘I’m fit to bursting.’
‘Good. Now dab a little of this behind your ears.’
Lauren took the glass bottle of lavender water and did as she was bidden. Then, removing the filthy towel from about her neck that served as a napkin, she stood for inspection.
Mrs Grant pulled her roughly by the shoulders, turning her from left to right. A haze of dust sprinkled the wedge of light shining through the timber walls of the two-roomed hut. Lauren imagined it to be fairy dust and flicked at the shimmering particles with her hand, stirring the air so that her mother let out a tremendous sneeze. The baby immediately began to cry, which set Lauren’s young sister whining.
‘God’s holy trousers, Lauren,’ Mrs Grant complained, blowing her nose on the hem of her stained skirt. ‘Be quiet the both of you,’ she directed at the squealing children, ‘or I’ll send you to live with your slut of a sister, Susanna.’
Lauren watched with admiration as her mother’s raised hand elicited immediate silence.
‘Shoes.’
Lauren lifted the olive green skirt seconded from the washing pile and pointed each of her feet in turn. Although patched with mismatched leather, the stitching was barely noticeable. Lauren had spent a brain-numbing hour polishing the leather with bees wax so that her shoes were glossy, and even her repaired gloves were benefiting from the spit and polish her mother had so industriously undertaken.
‘And you’ve food?’
Clearing the dirty dishes, soiled nappies and needle and thread to one end of the table, Lauren opened the small traveller’s bag. Inside were two changes of smalls, a new skirt made from the length obtained at the store before Christmas, a white blouse, her hair brush and a loaf of bread wrapped in calico. Her waterbag hung on the packing case chair nearby.
‘Good. Now you’ve remembered everything I’ve told you, girl.’
Considering her mother’s instructions were now scalded in her brain, Lauren longed to say no. ‘Yes, Mother. I leave now; that will give me a good two hours of daylight by which time the full moon will be up and I’ll be within Wangallon’s boundary. I’ll find somewhere to camp and not move until daylight. That way I won’t lose my way.’
‘Good. Follow the tracks, travel slowly and arrive exhausted. That way they’ll be compelled to look after you.’ Mrs Grant lifted the pot and sat it back on the hearth.
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘And don’t leave once you’ve decided which one you’re having. It will be months before the minister returns. By then we might be ready for a wedding and a christening.’
Lauren grinned.
Mrs Grant sat the lavender water in her daughter’s bag and added a bottle of cod liver oil. ‘Have you everything, girl?’
‘I