the transfer of funds to The Bank of Scotland. A scatter of ten houses or so appeared through the window and then disappeared as the plane circled towards the landing strip. They came in low. A rush of trees and gravel sped past them and then they were lifting upwards again.
‘What happened?’ Jim asked, concerned at the abruptness of the manoeuvre.
‘Roos.’ The pilot pointed to where eight grey kangaroos were bounding away from the strip and into the bush. ‘They come in for the green pick at the edge of the strip. Bloody nuisance.’
The pilot brought the plane back around again and they landed with the maximum of bumps and a screech of gravel that sent them careering off course and into the dry dirt off the edge of the strip. As the plane stopped, Jim was jolted forward. His breath caught in his throat and he decided that when he finally left this blasted place he would get a hire car.
The pilot grinned, his irregular-shaped teeth forming a flashy contrast against the dark tan of his face. ‘Sorry about that, mate. The old girl tends to do that sometimes.’
When the billowing dust finally settled, Jim saw a woman standing beside a white truck. He slung his bag over his shoulder as he walked towards the solitary vehicle. Despite his best intentions his chest lurched just a little and he automatically slowed the pace of his walk, conscious of the past. It was Sarah and she was unchanged. Her red-gold hair was tied away from her face, her hands shoved deep in the pockets of her jeans. Jim adjusted the bag on his shoulder.
‘Good trip?’ Sarah asked politely. She thought back to their first meeting in the ruins near Tongue. Their roles were completely reversed. Now it was his turn to be in a foreign land.
‘Aye.’
Deciding against any physical show of welcome she got behind the steering wheel. ‘Throw your bag in the back and we’ll be off.’
Jim slid into the passenger seat. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’
Sarah recalled his brief letter. ‘I considered my options, Jim, after you pointed out this wasn’t going to be a pleasant reunion. But Wangallon is a working property. I can’t pull people off jobs even if I wanted to.’
There it was, the clipped tone of someone who was firmly in charge. Jim recalled Robert Macken’s parting words: ‘Remember the old man that willed you the money is dead. Them that are left may not have been taught how to share.’
‘How’s the season?’ Jim had heard the line used between two wide-brim-hatted men at the airport in Sydney.
Sarah turned towards him briefly, her eyes narrowing. ‘Good enough’. She slowed as they turned down the main street of Wangallon Town, idling the vehicle to a stop outside the Wangallon Town Hotel. ‘Thought you might prefer to stay here?’ She let the question hang, positive he would agree that sleeping under the same roof was a bad idea.
Jim looked at the peeling paintwork and reminded himself of the purpose of his journey. He was here to meet his father, have a look at the property and then get his money. Although part of him would be happy to escape into the pub, it wouldn’t help his cause being stuck here without transport. ‘No, thanks. Wangallon will be fine.’
‘You sure?’ Sarah persevered. Silence answered her. The pub and its wrought iron upstairs balcony disappeared in the rear-view mirror. ‘You might be interested to know that this town was built just before my great-grandfather selected Wangallon. My family has been here a long time, Jim. We have a proud history.’
‘You forget, Sarah, it’s my family too.’
She hadn’t forgotten, but she considered the link tenuous at best. He had his own family in Scotland and they were good people. ‘I’m surprised your parents agreed to you coming out here.’
‘Do you begrudge me the right to my inheritance?’
She wanted to say yes, that he had no right to take something that he did not create himself, that he had never been part of; that he wasn’t born to. The length of time it took her to answer betrayed her true feelings. The air grew tense between them. Sarah wound down the window and breathed in the freshening wind. In a month it would be spring. Turning up the radio, she took the back route into the property. It cut through West Wangallon and added an extra five gates to the normal four. She figured the exercise wouldn’t hurt him.
‘I grew up