‘Which we added to the extra funds needed for our project. It’s been keeping me busy, what with painters and plasterers taking over the place.’
Rachael’s skill at avoiding paid employment left Madeleine wondering at her own excessive work ethic. Since university she had immersed herself in her career. She knew it wasn’t healthy but work helped to stop her from dredging up the past. ‘What project?’ she asked.
‘Our main concern is ensuring that Grandfather Harrow doesn’t appear as if he painted in poverty. We can’t have visitors travelling out to the sticks and finding a boring old room with nothing more than a bed, a desk and a cupboard.’
Madeleine shook her head. ‘Excuse me? I’m not following you.’
‘Well, once the retrospective opens there will be huge media interest. After all, forty works on show that haven’t been seen in a single exhibition since the fifties is quite a coup. Naturally the renewed interest in Grandfather Harrow’s life,’ Rachael continued, ‘will extend to his home and upbringing – where he got his early inspiration from, that sort of thing.’
Madeleine held out her glass for a refill.
‘When your mother first told George she intended to approach you about holding an exhibition of his work, we jumped to it straightaway. We’d already started the reno, but we knew we’d have to be pretty organised to get things up and running in time.’
Madeleine took a sip of wine. In spite of her earlier hangover she was enjoying the acidic taste. ‘Up and running for what?’
‘Well,’ Rachael replied enthusiastically, ‘we thought Sunset Ridge could be promoted during the retrospective as a further area of interest that fans and artists – even critics – could visit.’
‘Sort of like a home-stay situation,’ George added. ‘We could easily accommodate six people in the homestead.’
‘The old schoolhouse and governess’s room is a bit rustic, but we could certainly fit another four in there,’ Rachael said. ‘And of course there’s ample room for caravans. George and I think we should form a committee to get the district involved. There are so many things we could do: visiting art lecturers, artist-in-residence programs and concerts.’
‘My, you have given this some thought,’ Madeleine said, wondering if she should reveal that the exhibition was barely at the conceptual stage. She knew, however, that the decision would not be hers to make for long: after last night Jude was sure to be on the phone to her son any minute complaining about her attitude to the project, if she hadn’t already. ‘And you’re happy to have strangers living with you, George? When this is a working property?’
‘Of course he is,’ Rachael answered. ‘So, what date came out of the board meeting?’
Madeleine sat the wine glass on the table. ‘None. The concept was bumped off the agenda until next month.’ It wasn’t really a lie.
‘Bumped off?’ Rachael repeated. ‘We’ve invested a lot of time and money in this project, Madeleine, and I was under the impression that you’d been working on it for a while. Jude said you’d been tracking down the owners of the landscape paintings.’
Madeleine wanted to tell her sister-in-law that she shouldn’t have assumed the exhibition would automatically go ahead, but instead she said: ‘And I have been, but these things don’t happen overnight, Rachael.’
‘Do you have any idea of timing, sis?’
‘No, George. I don’t.’
Rachael turned to her husband. ‘I told you, George, that an event of this magnitude should have been offered to a state gallery. I should have taken on the project myself instead of –’
‘Instead of what?’ Madeleine asked, looking squarely at Rachael.
Rachael sighed dramatically. ‘I just feel that Grandfather Harrow deserves something a little . . . grander than a suburban art gallery.’
‘I see. You know, I never realised you were so interested in him, Rachael.’
In the silence that followed, Madeleine watched creamy moths bash against the veranda gauze. ‘Anyway, with your art background I’m sure you understand the intricacies that go into mounting an exhibition of this scale.’
Rachael narrowed her eyes. She had been a primary school art teacher prior to her marriage, a fact George felt compelled to mention on the few occasions that he and Rachael were present when Jude and Madeleine chatted about art.
‘There’s some steamed chicken for dinner if you’re hungry,’ George offered. ‘Sonia cooked it up especially for Rachael.’
Madeleine thought of the mangled chook on the sandstone pavers. ‘I’m fine, thanks. I think I’ll turn in.’ She left the couple sitting in silence on the veranda.
The following morning Madeleine was up early. She could have sworn that the telephone woke her, yet the house was quiet. A soft breeze travelled along the hallway from the open double doors as Madeleine walked the length of the homestead, passing bedrooms, bathrooms and the station office. With the improvements already completed she was unsurprised by the rattan-weave flooring in the now open-plan dining and lounge rooms. The grey fleur-de-lis patterned carpet she remembered was gone, as was the dip in the floorboards and the gap between wall and floor in what was the original sitting room. A deep skirting board now collared the large open space and the floor was level. Madeleine knew that re-stumping houses was a major undertaking, which added to her suspicion that Rachael must have recently received some money from her family. She couldn’t believe that George would have borrowed money from the bank for the renovations, not with the drought. The furniture, however, had not changed. It was still a mix of nineteenth-century hardwoods, some art deco-inspired pieces her grandfather had purchased, and a number of shabby-chic chairs and bow-fronted cabinets that oozed Rachael but didn’t blend in.
The combined dining and lounge room had two doors on the opposite wall: one led to the old music room, which was empty except for a stack of paint tins and sheets; the other to the kitchen. At least this part of the house was still familiar. Mustard-yellow linoleum squares covered the floor and the cupboards were the same off-white. The rain-water tap in the sink still squeaked on turning and the familiar sound of rattling pipes preceded the red-tinged water. Madeleine drank thirstily, the faint taste of grit on her tongue. Helping herself to Rachael’s gourmet muesli, she saw that the fridge was stacked with containers filled with leftovers. Either Sonia over-cooked or George and Rachael were fussy eaters.
Madeleine wandered around the kitchen, bowl in hand. The old Aga still stood at one end of the room accompanied by a gas stovetop and an electric wall oven. She had a vision of her parents dancing to a song on the radio; of George with a paper hat from a Christmas bonbon stuck rakishly on his head. The tall grandfather clock, which once held pride of place in the lounge room, chimed six-fifteen from the corner of the kitchen as Madeleine crunched muesli, the lost family scene melting away.
Inside the pantry the shelves were brimming with tinned goods and a container filled with homemade biscuits. Built on the eastern side of the house, the pantry was a surprisingly cool spot. Madeleine and George had often hidden there in their youth when their father was having one of his rants. The wooden shelves were long and deep; curled up behind a hessian bag of potatoes and their father’s wicker-covered demijohns of rum, it had been easy to stay out of sight.
Looking back, it seemed that anything could annoy Ashley Boyne: bad commodity prices, his noisy children, the weather, the men he and Jude employed to help on the property. Even the most senior of the station hands they were fortunate enough to hire didn’t last long. They soon walked under the tirade of abuse that could accompany the smallest error on their part, usually the result of scatty instructions, or after daring to make a management decision in conflict with their employer’s less-experienced demands. Madeleine reminded herself, with little comfort, that these days her father would probably have been diagnosed with a mental-health problem, and that this knowledge, had it b
een available, might have saved his life.
Madeleine’s attempts to discuss her father with Jude after they relocated to Brisbane were usually blocked. And for some time George was uncomfortable talking about him as well. Looking back, she guessed his death had been too painful and awkward for her mother and brother to address, yet it was different for her. Madeleine yearned to hear his name, to talk about the happy times before his suicide. She needed to come to terms with why he had taken his own life and in doing so deserted his family. However, as the years passed, their mother only mentioned his name at Christmas and on birthdays, adding to Madeleine’s sense of loss.
She knew George shared her misery in his own way and, gradually, after they had been in Brisbane for a couple of years, he began referring to past events on the property when the family was still together. Madeleine would listen intently to her brother on these occasions. Wide-eyed and grateful for any anecdote about their father, she would urge him to share another, and dear George nearly always relented. Although the stories were too few, George’s telling of them never waned. Madeleine would always love him for that.
Aged twelve at the time of her dad’s death, Madeleine had never understood why he wanted to die, and it was this inability to reconcile her father’s taking of his own life that compelled her to raise the topic with Jude when at times her sadness engulfed her. Jude remained stubborn in her refusal to go into detail other than to tell her daughter that she believed stress played a significant role in Ashley’s death. Ultimately, Jude thought, he was unsuited to the hard work required to run a rural property. Madeleine spent her formative years – high school and university – wavering between the anger she felt towards Jude for her reluctance to talk about her father, and trying to understand her mother’s unwillingness to relive painful memories.
It was George who had set Madeleine straight. Taking her aside one Christmas, he explained that Jude’s reticence was due to a mix of disappointment and anger. ‘Mum thought she knew the man that she married – instead, he turned out to be a coward. They were her words, Maddy, not mine. She felt like Dad deserted her. He left her demoralised and embarrassed and alone.’
Madeleine found it difficult to comprehend such anger, especially against her beloved father, who she believed was clearly hurting and in need of help. The worst of it was that Madeleine glimpsed her mother’s harsh attitude in herself. Jude couldn’t forgive her husband for his actions, as Madeleine could not accept her mother’s hard stance.
Madeleine walked out onto the new bricked-in veranda at the front of the house. Through the window she saw a horse and rider trotting across to the stand of trees in the middle of the house paddock about five hundred metres away. The rider dismounted and appeared to check the horses’ hoofs. The man was tall, although with the distance and obligatory wide-brimmed hat he was unrecognisable to Madeleine. He was joined by a dusty white sedan, in which Sonia appeared.
Intrigued, Madeleine moved closer to the oval window as both Sonia and the stockman turned and stared in the direction of the homestead. For a brief moment she felt that they were talking about her.
‘What’s so interesting?’
Madeleine jumped. ‘George! You gave me a shock.’
‘Sorry. Did you find everything all right?’
‘Yes, thanks. Who’s the horseman?’ she enquired, gesturing at the window.
‘Horseman? I bet you it’s old Ross Evans,’ George replied, moving to look out the window. There was no sign of anyone outside, although a vehicle was disappearing in a shroud of dust. ‘He’s an old bloke from the village who rides through here on and off. Don’t ask me why. I think he’s got a few loose in the top paddock.’ George tapped his head. ‘Anyway he’s harmless. He’s helped us out on the odd occasion, unasked. I came across him down by the river about a week after I first took over this place. He was trying to stand an old cow who’d recently calved. Don’t you remember me telling you about him?’
‘Vaguely. That’s a while ago now. I thought it was a one-off,’ Madeleine replied.
‘Well, every now and then I’ll discover a repaired fence or a sheep that’s been pulled clear of a drying waterhole. Occasionally I’ll see Ross riding through the paddock, but he doesn’t want money or thanks.’ George looked at his sister. ‘Come to think of it, he doesn’t even want conversation. Mum reckons there was some bloke who did the same thing after she and Dad first came to live here, although she never got a close look at him.’
‘And you think it was Ross Evans?’
‘Who knows?’ George replied. ‘Probably not.’
‘Sonia appeared to be talking to him a minute ago.’
‘Really? That would be a first. There isn’t any love lost between Ross and Sonia. It was probably Will Murray. He still works here and Ross gives him the creeps.’
‘How is Will?’ Maddy asked.
‘Pretty good. He checks the dams and troughs for me every two days or so across the western and southern country. I do the rest. By the time we’ve checked the entire forty thousand acres, it’s time to start again, in between feeding the sheep, of course. If we don’t check the bore system regularly you can bet one of the troughs will go dry from a buggered float or something, and then the sheep will be without water.’
Madeleine noticed the deep frown line etched between her brother’s eyes. The drought was taking its toll. It showed in a dull-eyed stare and the flecks of grey speckling his dark hair. Now in their early thirties, they still looked quite similar – both had brown hair and brown eyes and erred on the slim side, although years in an office had given Madeleine an overly rounded backside she could happily have done without. She cuffed him lightly on the shoulder. ‘You were the one who wanted to be the farmer.’ She smiled; they both knew that wasn’t really true – their mother had steered George in that direction. Agricultural college was quickly followed by a stint on a big spread up north, and by his early twenties he was in charge of Sunset Ridge. Madeleine never asked if agriculture was George’s calling, probably because his control of the property occurred at about the same time he met Rachael at a Flying Doctor fundraiser. Almost immediately they had become an item, and six months later they were engaged. The rush to the altar reminded Madeleine of the opening line of Pride and Prejudice; clearly Rachael decided that George, with his forty thousand acres and boyish charm, was in want of a wife.
‘I love the place, Maddy, but if I had a choice . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Family loyalty, emotional attachment – it’s a bit of a bugger, this whole bush heritage thing, but it means the world to Mum.’
‘Does it? When was the last time she visited?’
George switched on the kettle. ‘She and Rachael don’t really hit it off anymore.’
‘That wouldn’t keep her away, you know that. She still owns Sunset Ridge.’
‘And doesn’t Rachael love that,’ George said. ‘Coffee?’
‘Thanks.’ Deciding against making a comment, Madeleine waited as George made coffee for both of them.
‘It’s just as well she kept it.’ George stirred a spoonful of sugar into each of their mugs and passed his sister hers. ‘Most women probably would have sold the property after Dad died, especially when she made the decision to leave, however by leasing it she could buy the apartment in Brisbane and still keep the old family place. And, let’s face it, we never wanted for anything growing up. She probably sees the place as a bit of a security blanket, and it’s a pride thing. Everything Mum’s done has been for the protection of the property and, by extension, the Harrow name. She’s mighty proud of her family. A number of the older families in the district have come and gone, but not us.’
Madeleine looked at him over the brim of the mug as she sipped the coffee. ‘You’re angry with her.’
George lowered his voice. ‘I would have sold the place four years ago if I could have found a buyer and got Mum’s agreement.’ He took a sip of his c
offee. ‘I left my run a bit late, though. I always have been a bit behind the eight ball.’
‘Rubbish.’
‘No, it’s true.’ His voice dwindled away. ‘Anyway, I’m stuck with it. At the moment Sunset Ridge isn’t worth a spit. Besides, now we’ve got a spotlight on us with this exhibition, we can hardly sell it.’
‘I’d always wondered if you’d thought about doing something else for a living.’
‘Like what?’ George asked with interest, sipping his coffee and swallowing appreciatively.
‘I don’t know. Barista, perhaps?’ George didn’t know anything else. And like Madeleine, he didn’t have any artistic talent either.
‘There is going to be a retrospective of Grandfather’s work, isn’t there? I spoke to Mum this morning and –’
Madeleine gave a knowing smile. ‘I was wondering when Jude would call you.’
‘She thinks you’re dragging the chain.’ George took a couple of gulps of coffee and poured the remains down the sink. ‘I know you’ve always felt as though you’ve grown up in Grandfather’s shadow. Remember at school when cranky Mr Masterton used to ride you in art class?’ George cleared his throat: ‘ “Madeleine, I find it astonishing that a young woman of your pedigree could have such limited ability . . .” The next minute you’re out sneaking a ciggy in the dark room during photography class.’
‘Well, I was continually found wanting, wasn’t I?’ Madeleine crossed her arms. ‘Everyone always expected more, and uni was no different to school. People couldn’t understand why I wasn’t a painter or a sculptor or a potter. People assumed I’d be staggeringly creative in some way. People assumed I would have known my grandfather. Shit, George, I can barely manage a stick figure.’
‘Me neither,’ he grinned. ‘So, what about this exhibition, then?’
Madeleine sighed. ‘Like I told Mum, Australiana just isn’t popular at the moment, and even if the show gets the green light it will take time to organise, maybe a couple of years.’
Sunset Ridge Page 4