The Bark Cutters Read Online Free PDF

beneath a wad of yellowing bank statements. There were pictures of small crofters’ cottages, shots of the ScottishHighlands and one of a young woman smiling brightly into the camera. He thumbed through the ageing photographs, pausing at last at the neat cottage and the slim beauty standing outside the front door. Turning the picture over, a burly thumb traced the ink writing: Outskirts of the village of Tongue, Scotland 1961 .
    With a shake of his head, Ronald drained his now cold mug of coffee. Beneath the photos lay the leather folio gifted to him by his father on his twenty-first birthday. Resting proudly between protective folds of cream tissue paper lay a black and white photograph of Hamish Gordon, his grandfather. The white-bearded, wedge-chested giant was pictured sitting on the verandah at Wangallon homestead, a dog by his feet, a pipe in his hand and a scowl on his face. Perhaps, Ronald mused, Angus believed the essence of the man within would, via some mysterious form of osmosis, permeate the soft skin of his only child. Ronald closed the folio and buried it deep beneath his treasured photographs. Some genetics were best not passed on.

Sarah didn’t hear the knock on the back door. Busy unpacking groceries in the walk-in pantry, she was intent on finishing the job before her mother reappeared. The trip to town had lasted a good part of the day and her mum, having complained for almost the entire 150 km return journey, was medicating herself with paracetamol and Staminade.
    â€˜Hello, anyone there?’
    Sarah started at the voice coming from outside the screen door.
    â€˜Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.’ Anthony gave a lopsided grin and took a step back as she opened the door. ‘You look nice.’
    â€˜Thanks.’ Sarah fidgeted with the empty plastic shopping bag in her hand.
    â€˜Shopping day?’ Anthony asked.
    She felt his eyes skim over her pale jeans and bright pink, oversized sweatshirt. She finally had her ice-blue eye shadow and a new bright pink lipstick and she’d actually felt prettytrendy in town today. His hat was tilted towards the back of his head revealing a sweep of sun-burnished hair. She held the door open. ‘Machinery parts day,’ Sarah replied. ‘Hydraulic hose, o-rings …’
    Anthony nodded. ‘For the tractor.’
    â€˜Engine oil, grease gun cartridges, 12-volt car battery,’ Sarah elaborated, finishing with a roll of her eyes.
    Anthony shook his head. ‘What, no good stuff?’
    â€˜Nothing. Oh except for mum. She got herself a few things and a potplant. Oh, I got more film for my camera.’
    â€˜You’ll be broke getting all those photos you take, developed.’
    He was right. Since the gift of the camera for her birthday last year, she had taken heaps of shots, most of which had ended up in the bin.
    â€˜You not into the post-Christmas sales?’
    â€˜Not really.’ Her mouth was beginning to feel a little dry.
    Anthony cocked his head to one side. ‘There should be more women like you, Sarah.’
    Sarah felt her cheeks warm, ‘Yeah, right.’ The awkward silence that followed was broken by her mother’s voice demanding to know where the dried peas were.
    â€˜Dinner speciality?’ Anthony queried.
    Sarah nodded. ‘In the pantry, Mum,’ she called out over her shoulder.
    â€˜Anyway, I just wanted to give you this. Merry Christmas.’
    Sarah accepted the small red tissue-paper-wrapped gift. ‘Anthony, you didn’t have to get me something.’ She’d not bought him anything for Christmas. He had spent two weeks with his own family down south over the holiday period and although she had thought about getting him something on more than one occasion, finally she’d decided that by the time he returned to Wangallon it would be too late.
    â€˜I wanted to give you something. It’s just a bit late.’
    Sarah squashed the small, soft parcel