A Changing Land by Nicole Alexander Read Free Book Online

burning skin fills the air as Luke passes out amid a contorted grimace. The cook grunts in disgust and swills more rum. Mungo’s pink-tipped tongue flicks with concern as he prods at the red skin surrounding the wound. He looks up at the cook and grins, his teeth a flash of righteousness.

Hamish stalked the verandah, pausing occasionally to puff irritably on his pipe. An unseasonal mist, thickened by moist air and cooling temperatures, hung stubbornly about him, obliterating his world. The gravel driveway, the wavering trees, even the flowering shrubs that hedged in Wangallon Homestead were barely visible. From his waistcoat he retrieved his gold fob watch, impatiently noting that only a paltry ten minutes had passed. With a disgusted puff of his pipe he sat heavily in one of the wicker chairs lining the verandah, listening to the household. The distant clang of pots and the stacking of crockery carried sharply in the still air above which hovered the maids’ muffled giggling and the deeper intonation of Mrs Stackland, their cook and housekeeper. The combined noise was akin to the drone of a bee. The scent of baking bread was the only agreeable aspect to his sensory disturbance.
    â€˜Hamish?’
    Claire is dressed in white muslin from neck to ankle, a fine brocade wrap about her shoulders. Walking sedately behind her isa rather overfed cat, a tabby that Hamish detests. He glares at the cat, knowing the feeling is mutual.
    â€˜The weather is most unusual,’ Claire allows the cat to settle comfortably on her knees.
    Hamish scowls. The cat purrs loudly in defiance.
    â€˜It is a nice respite from last week’s heat and wind.’ Claire’s rhythmic stroking makes the tabby’s contentment even louder. ‘I seem to recall similar weather conditions led to a poor start last year to the season.’ She plucks at a loose strand of cotton on the buttoned wrist of her blouse. She had been born in this most unfathomable of countries, yet fifty-six years on, her daily life, her very subsistence, still depended on the vagrancies of the heavens. To be held to ransom by the gods of the sky had, she decided, been a most humbling experience since her arrival at Wangallon. ‘It is nearing half-past six, Hamish. Soon this slight fog will burn off and Jasperson will be here to drag you off to some distant part of Wangallon. Why don’t you eat something?’ Hamish was gazing beyond the silhouette of a native tree. Her fingers touched the hard darkness of his hand. He was looking at her like someone awoken from a deep sleep. ‘Take a little tea and some fresh fruit loaf,’ she continued. ‘Lee has managed to plead his way into Mrs Stackland’s kitchen.’
    Hamish pulled his hand free of her touch. Claire smoothed her skirt over her knees, disturbing the cat, who growled softly in reproach. ‘It has been a year of firsts for our great country,’ Claire began, hoping there was some suitable topic in which they could both engage. ‘How I would love to have witnessed the great fleet of the United States of America visiting our shores, or seen the first surf carnival held at Manly Beach.’
    Hamish stared stonily ahead.
    â€˜And how wonderful an explorer is Douglas Mawson’, she persevered. ‘Imagine climbing a 13,000 foot high volcanic cone in Antarctica of all places.’ The mist was lifting. Streaks of bluewere interlaced with fluffy balls of white cloud. ‘I’ve received correspondence from Mrs Oscar Crawford.’ Surprisingly, at this, Hamish actually turned his attention to her. Claire seized on the opportunity. ‘My dear, it would seem their eldest, William, has completed his law degree and is travelling north to visit his father. Oscar Crawford has been ensconced next door for the last six months. I do find it strange that he does not hold some gathering to which we might attend. In Sydney they are quite the fashionable couple. Still,