Like Another Woman

Jacques Horringa

Description

This novel centres on the lifelong passion of a man to own his own country property. Clive Patterson finally achieves his dream and becomes obsessed with developing his 145 square miles (37554.8 hectares) of land in the Australian Outback. His wife, Jane, begins to realise Clive is obsessed with his land and has lost interest in her. The tension between them develops when Clive hires a stockman, Robert, to help on the property. Will Jane, feeling neglected, switch her allegiance to Robert?

Author Jacques Horringa brings his four years' experience working in the Outback to this novel. Like Another Woman, his second published book, following Saskia, published in 2019.

Informations

• Publié par: The Svengali Press
• Date de parution: 01 décembre 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781922473370
• Langue: English

Extrait

LIKE ANOTHER WOMAN
Jacques Horringa

Published by

2, 2-4 Notts Avenue Bondi Beach, NSW 2026 AUSTRALIA
[e-mail] www.svengalipress.com.au
ISBN 9780648922704 (p/b) ISBN 9781922473370 (ebk)
Copyright © 2020 Jacques Horringa
All rights reserved worldwide. No part of the book may be copied or changed in any format, sold, or used in any way other than what is outlined in this book, under any circumstances, without the prior written permission of the copyright-holder.
Cover Illustration by Serena Agius
Digital version produced in association with ETT IMPRINT
Digital distribution by Ebook Alchemy
Contents

CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21


For my nieces, Joanne and Jenny
Acknowledgements
I would like to express my special thanks of gratitude to Marsha Lake from Marsha Lake Secretarial Services for her assistance in finalising the novel ready for print.
My special thanks go to Margaret Zanardo for putting it onto the computer for me, and Felicity Pulman for her encouragement and her expertise.
To my nieces, Jenny for your never-ending help, and Joanne for your support.
My thanks go to Kim Savage for her important input, and Ashleigh Hughes for her help
My thanks also to the Writer’s Group ‘The Waratahs’ for their assistance.
CHAPTER 1
Putting his foot on the clutch Clive Patterson slowly let the Land Rover roll to a stop a few feet away from the gate. With a roving gaze he took in the country in front of him, the gleam in his eyes betraying his inner feelings; feelings of joy, pride and satisfaction. He smiled with triumph, then abruptly got out of the car and strode towards the wire gate. It was a simple construction. Five strands of barbed wire attached to 2-5 feet high poles with a piece of plain wire in a loop to hang it on the fence. Clive made a mental note to replace it with a wooden slat one as he unhooked it and tossed it away from him. Then he walked to the top of a small jump-up not far away and looked around proudly. There it was! His country, one hundred and forty-five square miles of it.
It was good country too. Knee high green grass on rising and falling land; countless iron bark trees intermingled with gum and bloodwood. Here and there ridges of basalt and lower down, on the plains and near a creek or a spring, a small forest or patches of tea tree.
More seriously now he nodded. It had taken a long time. He was now thirty but he had finally got what he wanted.
After a last glance around Clive turned and, taking the makings for a cigarette out of his pocket, walked back to the Land Rover.
Yes, a long time…! The year 1951 would be etched in his memory as the year his dream had become reality.
Clive only ever had one ambition, to own a grazing property. And he had worked hard to get it.
Any other man with his obsession to have a cattle-station would have worked on one. But not Clive. He reckoned he could earn more shearing or cane cutting or wheat lumping. Cunningly he had made his contacts assuring work whenever he asked for it. His self confidence had reasoned that once he had his property the “know how” to run it would automatically follow. The only thing he had done was buy the odd book on cattle and horses.
His father had nodded approvingly when Clive had shown the books to him. “That’s right, boy,” his father had said, “learn as much as you can from what other people know. Then you can use this knowledge to work out your own ideas.”
When the land that was now his had gone up for ballot, Clive had applied, and weeks and months of anxious waiting had followed, until one morning, a letter arrived from the agent whom he had engaged to represent him at the ballot.
Yes, that had been some surprise! Involuntarily Clive grinned as he thought of it. It had taken so long he had already given up hope of ever hearing anything when … the reminiscent grin on his face grew broader. Three times he’d skimmed through the letter, picking out the words that would let him know whether he had won the land, before he managed to read it from beginning to end. It had been the one time his emotions had got the better of him and nervously he had given the letter to his father, intently watching the old man’s face as he read.
Carefully refolding the letter his father had given it back to him and said, simply: “Good luck, son. You’ve earned it. Now prove yourself.”
But Clive had noticed tears in his father’s eyes and his mother, who had read the letter over her husband’s shoulder, had hugged him, unable to speak.
Yes, they had known, maybe better than he himself, what it meant to him.
Jane had been the next one to hear the news. With a “See you later”, he had left.
Jane thought he had gone berserk when he arrived at her place, calling out: “I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” ecstatically waving the letter in the air. And when the first joy had passed they had sat down to discuss the future.
“We can get married now, Jane,” he had said, “as soon as I’m organised a bit.”
Jane had not said much but her eyes had shone with joy for him.
“Darling,” she had said, “I’m looking forward to being your wife. I love you so much!”
Clive got back in the Land Rover and drove on, carefully picking his way over the basalt on a track that was just visible. But after a while he pulled up and, swearing softly, looked around. This wasn’t the track. He got out and walked back along the marks made by the Land Rover.
“This bloody place looks the same everywhere,” he muttered.
After about fifteen minutes he discovered where he had missed the turn. Driving back Clive got out his axe and cut a blaze on a bloodwood tree standing just left of the track. It was close to another hour before he saw the yards and a sigh of relief escaped him.
He parked the Land Rover near the gate to the holding yard and made camp.
Tomorrow would begin the first day of a life Clive had thought and dreamt of as soon as he had become aware of possibilities.
Next morning, he woke up early. The sun, itself not yet visible, had already coloured the few clouds in the sky blood-red. His campfire was still smouldering and, quickly, he added a few sticks of wood, fanning the glowing coals with his hat.
With the fire burning again he went to the creek to fill his quartpot and wash his face. The creek was fed by a spring about a mile up. And that spring, he was told, had never been dry as far as memory could recall.
While waiting for the water to boil he studied the rough sketch of the property which the owner of Laurel Hills, the station on which Clive’s land had once been a paddock, had given him. On this Basil Thornton had marked the boundary fence, the mills, the river which flowed through the top part of his property, and the plain.
First of all he must check his boundary.
The yards, where he was now, were the closest to the west fence. So, Clive thought, if I keep the sun on my back I must hit the fence somewhere. And, if my figuring is right, I must first come to a plain with a mill.
After a breakfast of bread and corn beef, Clive sat for a while, slowly sipping his tea and gazing into the fire. And, in those few minutes, he realised, for the first time the magnitude of the task he had taken on – that he was now the owner of a grazing property – and he felt a queer sensation in his stomach. A mixture of joy and fear and pride.
A dream had come true! A boy’s dream, which had become an obsession as the years went by, had been fulfilled. From now on, he could stop dreaming. He, Clive Patterson, son of a timber worker, owned a grazing property; 145 square miles of grazing land. He shook his head a couple of times. It was not that Clive was troubled by an inferiority complex about his social standing, but it was the sheer immensity of the idea.
He remembered, as a boy, he had envied the sons of the town’s businessmen. They seemed to have everything they wanted. How they used to brag about their fathers, how good their businesses were and how wealthy they were. Occasionally he had talked about his cattle station, it was there, in his dreams, but then they had stared at him in disbelief and sneered.
How would he ever get a cattle property if he didn’t have a wealthy father to buy one.
Then Clive had turned away from them hurt and humiliated but also angry and, pressing his lips together, he had thought: You just wait! Yes, they had talked about their dreams, what they hoped for and what they wanted to do when they had grown up. But most of them, one after another, had gone into their father’s business whether they had wanted to or not.
And here was he, the son of a timber worker, not rich at all but having the satisfaction of seeing his wishes come true and living in the open, free to do as he pleased. He would have to work hard, no doubt. But what was hard work if you are doing something you want to do very much. And this was the existence he had longed for all his life. Abruptly he got up and stretched. There was work to be done. Lots of work. He washed the plate and his knife with some of the tea and poured the rest on the fire, checke