George sat down at the table. ‘You’re joking?’
Madeleine finished her coffee and sat the mug on the sink. ‘Each of those forty paintings that we want to include in the exhibition has an owner, some of whom live overseas. Getting permission to borrow and transport valuable artworks for display is a major deal. Then there’s the cost. The insurance alone for an exhibition comprised predominantly of loaned material means that this particular display we’re considering would verge on the philanthropic. The gallery needs to create some serious buzz to get enough attendees to cover costs.’
‘What about sponsorship?’
‘I’ve already approached a number of organisations that are strong supporters of the arts, and the answer’s always the same: they’re looking for a measurable return on investment.’
‘So, why didn’t you approach a state gallery? They have more pull with government funding and they’ve got a better chance of getting good crowds, haven’t they?’
Madeleine sighed again. ‘Frankly, I don’t believe that Grandfather is a big enough name to warrant a state exhibition, especially when none of his work has ever been exhibited before. He was a damn fine artist, but I don’t imagine many people apart from serious landscape lovers even know who he is. It will be hard enough getting him into the Stepworth Gallery.’
She didn’t want to verbalise her concern that if the retrospective was not successful it may damage her career at the gallery.
‘Everyone says he was an excellent artist.’
‘And he was. But in comparison to the Streetons and Boyds of the Australian art scene, he’s an unknown. That’s why we need archival material. If we can build a chronological history of Grandfather’s life, it will make the retrospective a far more interesting proposition for the gallery, as well as value-adding to the exhibition itself, especially if we can blend his life and work with the great period of change Australia went through from the 1900s to the 1950s. Heavens, George: two World Wars and the Great Depression! He saw it all, lived through it all – and Mum expects me to stage an exhibition comprised of the forty landscapes he painted after he returned from the war and a couple of sketches. It’s not enough.’
‘So, do you think that there are more paintings?’
Madeleine nodded. In spite of her misgivings she was beginning to sound like her mother. ‘There has to be,’ she admitted. ‘Jude has those couple of early sketches drawn before the war, so there must be more, and now we know he continued drawing in France. Did Jude tell you about what the War Memorial turned up?’
‘Yes, amazing stuff. Mum was pretty excited by it.’
‘So she should be,’ Madeleine agreed. ‘We now have the beginnings of Grandfather’s artistic career. Imagine if he had been an official war artist; that really would have been something.’
‘But Grandfather was there, Maddy,’ George interrupted, ‘and he drew what he saw, what he experienced. Doesn’t that make his work just as important as an official artist?’
Madeleine grinned. ‘Yes, it does.’
George smiled back. ‘You don’t sound quite as uninterested in the exhibition as Mum insinuated.’
‘I’m trying to be objective, George.’
‘Fair enough. So what do you think they were like, the Harrow boys, and particularly Grandfather?’
Madeleine considered the question, thinking of the photograph she studied when she arrived at Sunset Ridge. ‘Conservative, polite and well educated, I would imagine,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I can only assume they were a product of their time. It’s amazing when you think that they grew up in this house, slept in the rooms we now sleep in, and fished in the river like we used to.’
George scratched his head. ‘Actually, it’s a bit hard to imagine.’
Madeleine gave her brother a soft smile. ‘You’re riding in their footsteps every day, George, seeing the same trees and red ridges, looking up at the same patch of sky. I should be asking you what you think our grandfather and his brothers were like.’
George gave a crooked smile. ‘Well, if they lived through a drought like this one, I reckon they would have been stressed.’
Sunset Ridge, south-west Queensland, Australia
August 1916
The wool wagon was being pulled by a team of twenty-four bullocks. Unkempt, lumpy-looking animals with yellowing horns and shaggy coats, they shuffled restlessly, twisting their necks against their yokes as they snorted and bellowed. Dave observed old Harris, the driver, as he came around the side of the wagon, his fingers fidgeting with the buttons on his trousers. He was a short, plump man with shoulders the width of two axe handles and a personality not suited to people. Dave reached out to rub the lead bullock on the nose. The animal shuffled and snorted and the driver, who had begun to climb back up onto the wagon, found the ground instantly.
‘Get away with you, boy!’ he yelled, waving a whip at Dave.
Dave backed off, scrambling up into the cavernous wool shed, which had been built on solid timber foundations at a height to match that of a wool wagon. In the shadow of the twenty-foot-wide doorway, he looked down to where his father was checking the ropes on the four tiers of bales already loaded at the front. His tweed coat-tail flapped in the winter breeze as he pointed, the driver’s assistant quick to re-tie the rope at his command. Dave had a mind to jump onto the wagon and run across the stacked bales, however he knew such antics would not be appreciated. Their father still held all three of his sons responsible for yesterday’s kerfuffle.
While in the village collecting supplies, his older brother Luther had got into a scuffle with the baker’s boy, Snob Evans. They had come across him hanging around outside the funeral parlour, his narrow forehead pressed against the curtained window. Snob had a habit of marking his territory like a tomcat, and the results were not always pretty. Although at seventeen he was only a few months older than Luther, Snob was quick to chase Luther down a dusty side street and taunt him about his stutter. In response, Luther had threatened to chop Snob’s finger off with his tomahawk. Dave’s other brother, Thaddeus, had pleaded non-involvement when reprimanded by their father – at nineteen he was bursting with sibling superiority – but he had sported a torn shirt, while Luther carried his split lip with pride. Snob always won.
Dave wasn’t much of a fighter, but he still enjoyed a good showing and his older brothers always provided the entertainment.
Dave jumped aside as Thaddeus helped Rodger – one of the three remaining station hands, the rest having enlisted – roll a bale out of the wool shed. They expected Rodger to join up at any moment, especially because his brother had died at Gallipoli. Timber boards creaked under the weight of the wool as it was manoeuvred across the gap between the shed and the wagon. The wagon rolled back and forth under the moving bale as an extended arm swung across the load from a timber pole. Securing the wool bale with rope, Thaddeus and Rodger stood back as it was winched into the air. The bale hung precariously for a few seconds, haloed by blue sky before being lowered onto the second tier.
‘Cold-footer,’ Harris hissed at Rodger.
‘Don’t worry about him, mate.’ Thaddeus clapped Rodger on the shoulder as they walked back to retrieve the next bale. ‘You can bet he wouldn’t be so quick to judge if he wasn’t too old to enlist.’
Dave stood back to let the men pass and then jumped to the ground and joined his father. ‘It’s a good clip, Father.’ Having overheard his parents discuss the wool proceeds in the dining room a few nights previously, he was full of knowledge about the British government purchasing the entire 1916–17 Australian wool clip at an agreed rate that exceeded previous prices. ‘Lucky for the war, or else prices wouldn’t be so good.’
George William Harrow, known by all as G.W., turned towards his youngest son, and Dave felt, as he often did, that he should remind his father of exactly who he was. Instead he smiled as his mother often suggested.
/> ‘It’s a fine line between fulfilling the needs of the army and profiteering.’ His father surveyed the length of the wagon and its precious load. ‘However, this is how money is made in the bush, lad. You remember that. Now, go and help Luther stencil the bales.’
Dave squeezed past Thaddeus and Rodger and made his way through the wool shed and the myriad bales filling the cavernous space. Beyond the three slatted wool tables and wooden fleece bins built into the wall, a wedge of sunlight highlighted dust mites floating over the lanolin-smoothed board. He found Luther in a far corner of the shed, kneeling between large wicker wool baskets, rubbing half-heartedly at a bale. Smears of black streaked the bale on which he worked as he stencilled the property name onto it.
Luther dumped the blackening pot and brush on an upturned basket. ‘T-take over, w-will you, Dave?’ He leaned against a timber upright as Dave began to stencil. The lettering for Sunset Ridge was perfect. ‘Not b-bad for a k-kid,’ Luther admitted. He pulled his tomahawk free of its leather pouch. ‘See that th-there?’ Pointing at a piece of rusty iron that was nailed over a hole in the wall some eight feet away, he took aim and threw the tomahawk directly at the wall. The blade whirred through the air to strike the tin dead centre. ‘C-cut clean through a m-man, I reckon.’
Sometimes Dave wondered about Luther. The story his mother told of dropping Luther on his head when he was a baby didn’t seem to be reason enough for his actions at times. ‘Father is in a good mood considering the scrape you got into yesterday.’
Luther prised the axe head free and tucked it back into his belt. ‘Th-that w-won’t last.’
‘It will if we win the Champion Fleece this year,’ Dave said hopefully.
His brother scratched a scab on the back of his hand. ‘Eighth t-time l-lucky, eh?’ He looked unconvinced. ‘I heard that C-Cummins is exhibiting another b-beauty and, l-let’s face it, he always w-wins.’ Luther jumped up on the bales and leapfrogged his way to the front of the shed. On reaching a timber pillar he scrambled up it, swung off a beam and scuttled back along the top of the bales. Dave watched his brother admiringly as thoughts of the fleece competition returned.
The whole family had been present in the wool pavilion at the 1915 Banyan Show. Lily Harrow, dressed in grey with a pristine frill of white at her neck and a hat that brought every other woman’s to shame in terms of size, had ensured that Thaddeus, Luther and Dave were at their presentable best. With their smiles pasted on in support of the Sunset Ridge entry, they had stood proudly in line with the podium, the silver winner’s trophy within reach. Finally the winners were announced. Sunset Ridge received a forgettable ribbon.
Cummins, the Champion Fleece winner for the eighth year straight, was treated by all with a grudging respect. Although his family had been in the district for twenty years longer than any other, he was not well liked. With a boil the size of a hen’s egg on the side of his face and a tendency to arrogance, he was difficult to take to. The Harrows had left soon after the competition, much to their mother’s dismay. She had taken a fancy to a piano and had already played two tunes that morning despite their father’s consternation. G.W. Harrow was not one for public showings.
Dave positioned the stencil on the next bale and rubbed the blackened brush vigorously across the metal. Beyond anything, he hoped they won this year. Their father had turned purple that day and the colour hadn’t faded until the dust whirled behind their dray five miles out of town. No one had dared to speak, except for Luther, of course.
‘I’ll go r-right over to C-cummins’s place and p-punch him square in the nose if you w-want me t-to, Father.’
Of course, their father would never allow such a thing to occur, but in the offering Luther set himself apart. In response, their father glanced over his shoulder to where they all sat in the rear of the dray, and with the imperceptible dip of his chin did the rarest of things: he singled Luther out for approval. That Christmas, Dave and Thaddeus received new saddle blankets; Luther, the tomahawk.
Dave finished stencilling the last bale and met Luther in the shade of the engine room where their horses were tethered. All the boys’ horses were chestnut geldings out of the same dependable mare, which had finally died – their mother said of exhaustion – last year. They were heading to the river. Soon they would be fishing and talking with Thaddeus’s mate, Harold Lawrence.
‘What about Thaddeus?’ Dave asked as Luther mounted up, his horse whinnying.
‘Do you th-think he’d w-wait for us?’ He gave his mount a friendly cuff between the ears.
They rode off at a trot, angling close to the sheep yards, careful to avoid the edge of the in-ground dipping trench. Harris bellowed commands as their horses skirted a stand of wilga trees. Behind them the tiers of bales on the wool wagon blocked view of their departure. Dave watched a bale hang suspended mid-air, and then steered his horse into the scrub.
They rode through stringy saplings and mounded ant hills, over late-winter herbage and brittle grasses. The sun warmed his shoulders, and Dave guessed that it was only a bit past one o’clock when they crisscrossed a series of narrow sheep paths that signified they were nearing the river. Only twelve months ago they had been in the grip of a horrendous drought, yet they had fared better than the state of Victoria. With rivers dried up and grass non-existent, ten million head of sheep were thought to have perished down south. Dave couldn’t imagine such numbers. Things had been bad enough at Sunset Ridge, with their own sheep lying down on the parched ground, brown eyes gazing into oblivion. Yet the rain had come, as their father said it would. By spring of last year Sunset Ridge was returning to life; the bush was returning to life. Just as a brass band marched down the Banyan main street, calling young men to adventure.
By the time Luther and Dave reached the gently sloping bank of the river, Harold was tying his boat to a tree. He sploshed from the timber craft through ankle-deep water, his boots hanging over a shoulder, a saddlebag in his hand. It was a good two hours’ row from the village of Banyan to Sunset Ridge, although the time was cut on the return leg thanks to the westerly flow of the water. A few months older than Thaddeus, Harold was muscular, thick-necked and sandy-haired. His father owned Lawrence Ironmongers and despite being the son of a shopkeeper Harold had been friendly with the Harrow boys since childhood.
With Thaddeus still loading the wool, the three of them baited their lines with worms Harold supplied from a battered cork pot and then spaced themselves apart along the river bank. Dave’s patience lasted five minutes. Tying the fishing line to a stick and removing shoes and socks, he clambered up a tree. A gnarled, stubby branch provided the first foothold, a rotted board secured with a rusty nail the next. Below, Harold tugged lightly on his line while further along the bank Luther chopped branches for a camp fire with his tomahawk.
The scent of crushed leaves, distant smoke and tangy dirt and manure carried on the autumn breeze. Sheep grazed quietly on the opposite bank, their swollen bellies carrying the coming season’s lambs. To the left the river was protected by a winding row of trees that overhung the water’s edge, their branches dipping the surface like a bather readying to swim. Straddling a branch, Dave wiggled from side to side, edging forward until his feet dangled above the water. The westerly course of the waterway stretched into the distance before disappearing into a dense tangle of trees and scrub. Insects hovered over the river, forming miniature rings as they dropped to its surface.
Lifting his hands, Dave formed a square with his fingers. Through the frame a wisp of sunlight speared down on the waterhole. Although the surface of the river was a murky brown, the wintery light revealed the soft swirls of the water’s current, tracing the top of it with various hues of green and brown. There was both light and dark below him, space and proportion, pattern and balance. The water reflected almost exactly what Miss Waites had taught Dave and Luther about art composition that week in the schoolroom. Never one for Learners, he had done his best
along with his brothers to read and write and add sums – but art was different; he knew right away that he liked it. Especially because their governess did as well. Miss Waites would lean over his shoulder while explaining object placement and symmetry, her oval nail skimming a coloured plate, wisps of pale brown hair curling about her neck.
‘Hey, Dave,’ Harold called, ‘you’ve got a biter.’
Dave slid back along the branch and half slipped and half climbed down the trunk. Losing his footing, he fell the last few feet, his palm catching roughly against the nail and rotting board. Biting his lip, he reached the taut fishing line in time for it to go slack in his hand. Blood seeped from Dave’s palm as he dug filthy fingernails into the flesh to withdraw a long, thick splinter. He sucked at the weeping wound and spat the blood and grit on the sand as the pop of rifle-fire sounded in the distance. A horse whinnied, followed by the crunch of leaf litter.
‘What have I missed?’ Thaddeus slid from his horse in a showy manner. He had recently taken to riding bareback, causing their father to ask their mother on more than one occasion if she had planned to breed a circus act. Slipping the rifle from his shoulder, he dropped it on the river bank and joined Harold.
‘Joe Barnes died of his wounds,’ Harold told them. ‘Those blasted Turks got him eventually.’
‘Joe was a good bloke.’ Thaddeus lifted an arm and bowled an imaginary ball. ‘He could run like the wind and bat with the best of them.’
Harold scraped his teeth over a thick bottom lip. ‘I’d like to be doing more than selling nails and pannikins. You know, I’ve heard stories about lads younger than us enlisting.’
Thaddeus clapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘By the time your father lets you sign up, mate, the war will be over.’
‘I thought you wanted to go,’ Harold replied. ‘What if we lose over there and the Germans invade Australia? What then?’
‘And what about our businesses?’ Thaddeus countered. ‘We’ve already lost five station hands since last year, and with Rodger’s brother dead I reckon he’ll leave soon. That’ll leave two. Someone’s got to look after the sheep and the cattle.’
Sunset Ridge Page 5