The Bark Cutters Read Online Free PDF Page A

mother’s untouched glass of wine. Throwing the contents back she swallowed a mouthful of the dark red liquid in a peppery gulp, ignoring the urgent swivelling action of her brother’s head. In front of her lay the pearls that had belonged to hergrandmother and a rather beaten-up gold bangle. Before her brother lay Wangallon. The wine left a slight burning sensation in her throat.

    Ronald sat quietly in his office, sipping freshly brewed coffee, as a light breeze stirred the papers on his desk. Through the venetian blinds wild budgerigars were busy fluffing their feathers in a tall stringy bark, as willy-wagtails dive bombed the sprinkler on the lawn. The seasons were kind to the inhabitants of the north-west at the moment. Over the past year, above-average rainfall had increased the natural feed in the paddocks, ensuring well fed cattle and sheep, optimising the growth of grain. The ledger said it all: a year of sweet green grass and excellent clover cover, of wheat and barley crops exceeding normal expectations at harvest, of sheep nearing a record lambing, of cattle not far behind. Even the prices were positive at the moment, which meant Sue could travel to Sydney for ten days and give everyone a break.
    God it was peaceful this morning, Ronald mused, as he finished paying the monthly fuel account. He had given himself a timeline of about ten years; he then intended to retire to the coast. He figured by that stage Cameron would be running the property, Sarah would probably be married and he could escape the land he’d been tied to all his life. Sometimes his situation reminded him of the British monarchy. He had waited half a lifetime to inherit, only to realise that his own father was never going to abdicate. Some years ago he would have been jealous of Cameron, but not now.
    Years ago he believed that his father knew of the error of judgement that had been made within the walls of his marriage. There appeared to be no other possible explanation for his refusal to allow him more freedom to manage the property. And it wouldbe characteristic of Angus to exact some type of payback for the detriment past actions could cause to the family name. Yet over time Ronald could not be sure, for Angus never broached the subject. Eventually Ronald simply assumed that his father was more interested in a lump of dirt than his own family. Angus gifted him the 5,000 acres dubbed West Wangallon on which to build his marital home, however, the 120,000 odd acres that comprised Wangallon remained tightly within his control.
    Yet Ronald still loved Wangallon, especially now when her fertile earth swelled with life and he could actually plan and see a positive result from his labours. At night he dreamed of fields of golden wheat, awakening to find himself lying on his side with his hand outstretched, his fingers brushing the heads of imaginary grain laden with the prime hard wheat so loved by the flour mills. At other times sheep leaped into his subconscious to munch on spring herbage as he sat beneath the protective arms of an old coolibah in a rattan chair. Such dreams, such moments, were made more beautiful when contrasted with the endless hot, drought ridden months experienced intermittently over the last forty years. The memory of riding his horse back through a biting westerly wind, his face and eyes stinging from sunburn and flying grit after arduous hours of checking bore drains and dams for bogged stock – this was reality on Wangallon. Yes, Ronald mused, if he had his life over, Wangallon’s enticements would fail to entrap him a second time. She was a hard mistress, and unlike Sue, could not be calmed with valium and an extra shot of whiskey in the evening.
    A zephyr of air flowed through the gauze window to gently vibrate the blinds. Putting the station cheque book to one side, he breathed in the morning stillness and rummaged in the desk drawer to retrieve a selection of black and white photographs secreted